


To Be A Weapon In My Master's Hands

by AuroraKant



Series: DickGraysonWeek2020 [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: (Mirror Universe has a name now), And stuff gets dark my dudes, Blood and Torture, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Co-Dependency, Coming of Age, Court of Owls, Dehumanization, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Earth 49311, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Loss of Identity, Objectification, Talon!Dick Grayson, Tiny!Dick, We are finally in the Court of Owls, YeetDC2020, alternative universe, different dimension, suicide of a background character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23600824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraKant/pseuds/AuroraKant
Summary: Dick Grayson sees his parents fall to their deaths and the world like he knew it ceases to exist.He ends up in Juvenile Hall and when Bruce Wayne gets him out of there, he can finally breath again.But the shadow of the Court of Owls is hanging above Gotham and Batman has to make a decision when it comes to young Dick Grayson: Give the Court of Owls what they want or not?Part 1 of the A Mirror Full Of Demons-verse and the Origin of Talon!Dick and Other BruceDay 2: bottom!Dick |Court of Owls| (Super)Power AU
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, William Cobb (DCU) & Dick Grayson
Series: DickGraysonWeek2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697662
Comments: 33
Kudos: 113





	1. Bruce Wayne

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> I am back again with something I am very proud to present you guys: The very first story in the A Mirror Full Of Demons-verse!  
> There is another story in this Universe already but it takes place much later than this one and both can be read and enjoyed separately ;)  
> Just be warned this can get dark at times and it definitely not a happy story!  
> Other Bruce is not a Good Man.  
> Kudos, Comments, Bookmarks, and Subscriptions are highly appreciated! <3

Dick Grayson loved his _Mami_ and _Tati_.

They were the greatest people in the whole world after all. The best acrobats to ever exist. And every time Pop Haly said it was okay for Dick to join them on the trapeze in a show, he wanted to implode. Because flying was great during training and practice, it was always the best feeling possible, but flying when whole cities watched was so much more magical.

His Mami always laughed when he tried to explain it to her. She said he was a people pleaser. Her Robin, trying to make everyone smile. But Dick knew better: He wanted everyone to love him.

And it was easy to feel loved. The circus was one big family that had chosen each other and whenever someone was mean to them, they moved on, moved town. Dick was one of the only children here, which also meant that everyone was an uncle or aunt, spending time with him, letting him play with snakes and elephants and daggers. He was everyone’s darling and Dick couldn’t be happier about it.

He was nine years old and already one of the best. Dick couldn’t even begin to comprehend how his life could get any better than this. He wanted to be in the circus forever, playing with Zitka and doing the impossible on the trapeze. There wasn’t a world out there in which his favorite evening didn’t look like his Mami’s Borscht and spiced tea in his family trailer while his Tati recounted tales from his grandparents. 

The thing was, Dick was happy here. And he hated it when people told him that he wasn’t. Like this Chicago Social Worker, who was currently standing in front of him:

“But, Richard, I am not telling you that you can’t visit them. I am just saying that growing up in a circus isn’t the best environment for a kid-“

“I love it here and you can’t take me away!”

“Richard! You are performing acts on a trapeze 40 feet in the air without a net! That is not OSHA compliant. That is child endangerment!”

The social worker looked distressed. And Dick could maybe even understand why. The whole circus had come to present a wall opposing the wishes of the Chicago City to take Dick away. He would be scared too if Josh “The Bear” Johnson and Abedi “The Strange” Maleki were trying to intimidate him.

It was his Mami that spoke next:

“I can assure you that it is perfectly safe. The net is only removed during the high risk shows and Dick isn’t allowed to perform in them yet. We have taken every precaution possible to ensure his safety.”

“And that is great. But child endangerment is illegal under the American CAPTA Act and the city has let this happen for far too long…”

“But we aren’t even American?”

Dick was honestly confused. His Tati always told him how proud Dick should be because of his Romani heritage and Mami loved to talk about the adventures she had when she still lived in Khakassia. Most of the circus folks had similar roots: Dick knew that Pop Haly was French, that Catherina came from Italy, that Dimbulukeni had joined them from Namibia. Only Josh and Annette were from America and they were the ones who had taught Dick English in the first place. Normally all of them spoke a weird mix of languages, none of them fluent in all, but all of them capable of communicating in most of them.

But now everyone was looking at him as if he had spilled some great secret. But hadn’t that been common knowledge? Dick had an accent and all. And he wasn’t white like the social worker in front of him was. Well, neither was Josh and he was as American as they came. So, who knew?

“You are not American?”

“No, but I think Pop made it, so my passport says I am.”

He shouldn’t have said that. The look of shock on the social workers face, and the disappointed murmur of the circus performers behind him told him the same. But how should Dick have known? It wasn’t usually a secret, and this was the first time he had to talk to someone who worked for the government. He bet his Mami wished she had sent him outside right about now. Little Dick and his mouth always running off and causing problems.

“What?”

“I…”

“The boy is lying. Deluded. Of course, his passport is American. We are an international circus, as you know, but we are all citizens of the USA.”

Pop Haly had finally managed to fight his ways to the front lines and stood beside Dick. He sounded sure of himself, and confident, but it was his ringmaster voice, so Dick knew that it was all for show. Oh god, Dick had really fudged this situation up, hadn’t he? He hadn’t wanted to. And Pop Haly’s harsh words, probably only delivered to keep the social worker of their backs, did nothing to hinder the tears in his eyes from pooling down his cheeks.

“Forging official documents like passports is a class-A demeanor. I hope you are aware of that.”

“Of course! Which is why that is not the case. Our passports are all legal. Everything is perfectly fine.”

It didn’t sound fine. But at least the conversation didn’t seem to be focusing on Dick leaving the circus anymore. More and more of the adult members started talking. Whatever they were saying went right over his head. Dick heard the yelling, the heated debate and nothing else.

The social worker no longer seemed interested in Dick and was instead fully focused on Pop Haly and Mami. Tati was standing beside her, a hand on her shoulder and a frown on his face. Yeah, it was probably better if he got out of their hair. It was easy to use the confusion to disappear.

Nobody stopped him when he made his way towards the animal carriages and none of the trainers were currently standing watch to prevent curious 9-year-olds from wandering in there.

Zitka was waiting for him. She always was. She was his lady friend, his old companion, his bestest friend in the circus. Her large grey eyes found him as soon as he stepped into the trailer. She raised her trunk in greeting and before Dick could think consequences or caution, he launched himself at her, hugging her giant body.

“You understand me, Zitka, right? I didn’t mean to say it. I didn’t know it was a secret. Sometimes my mouth just says things my brain is only thinking. I just wanted to make sure that they couldn’t take me away. I want to stay here forever.”

Her touch was gentle but strong when her trunk wrapped itself around his body and hefted him onto her back.

“Thank you”

It felt like a hug. A giant, all-encompassing hug.

His Tati found him like this hours later. Dick had slept on Zitka’s back, but the sound of the metal doors sliding open, woke him up real quick. When his bleary eyes found the source of the sound, he could see the silhouette of his Tati.

“Here you are.”

“Huh?”

“We’ve been searching for you.”

“Sorry”

Dick felt really small, waiting for the verdict on his misdemeanors. Luckily, his Tati didn’t wait long. According to him no member of the Grayson family had ever possessed patience. He always joked that he wouldn’t be the one to start. Dick certainly wouldn’t.

“I know. We’re moving again, tonight.”

“But the Chicago Show!”

“Yeah, if we want the government of our backs, we should avoid the Chicago area for a while. We’re probably going back to touring Gotham next year instead.”

No. Dick hadn’t wanted for this to happen. Now it was really impossible to stop the tears from flowing.

“I am so, so sorry. I just… I wanted to stay with you and Mami! I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry…”

“I know. And it’s gonna be alright. We’re here, we’re your family, and we’re gonna stay together. We are the Flying Graysons. Nothing can keep us down!”

His Tati had stepped closer, cautious in a way Dick had never quite managed. He opened his arms wide and Dick didn’t hesitate even for a moment before launching himself from Zitka’s back into the arms of his father. Tati’s hugs were warm and safe and one of the greatest things in the world. Dick hoped he would be able to give hugs this good one day.

“Come on. I am sure Mami made something tasty and you’re gonna need the extra strength if you want to help during pack up. Hiding away costs energy after all.”

Dick was just so happy to be carried in the safe embrace of his Tati, to care about the prospect of having to do some heavy lifting later that day. It would be worth it. Everything would be alright.

Nothing was alright. Nothing would ever be alright ever again.

His eyes couldn’t leave the crumbled forms of Mami and Tati, laying on the floor of the big top like a pair of puppets, like songbirds with cut wings.

The last few moments replayed in his head again and again. Him, waiting on the sidelines because even though he was almost ten, he still wasn’t allowed to perform the shows without net. Him, watching as the rope snapped in the middle of a double twist routine all of them could do in their sleep. The look of surprise on his Tati’s face. The panic in Mami’s. The shouts that had started up in the crowd. His own panicked cry for someone to save them. The anguished wail tearing itself free from the throat of his Mami, the “Mary!” his Tati had yelled before meeting his end on the ground.

Dick must have climbed down after that because now he was sitting next to Mami and Tati, shaking them, asking for them to wake up, while blood soaked his hands and performer’s uniform. But they didn’t wake up. Instead the sequence of their fall began anew in his head. They were tumbling to the ground again and again.

Dick wanted it to stop. Wanted for Tati to tell him a joke, for Mami to sing a lullaby and reassure him that it all had been a dream. That this wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. Please. No. He wanted them to wake up. Now. He needed them. What was he supposed to do without Mami and Tati? He couldn’t do their trapeze act on his own. They were the three Flying Graysons. They were legendary.

There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, and when Dick finally managed to tear his eyes from the red bleeding into the wood shavings, the clean-shaven face of a person unknown to him greeted him:

“Don’t look.”

But what if Dick wanted to look? What if he wanted to make sure that Mami was still breathing? What if he needed to see his Tati’s face?

But the words didn’t come. Instead Dick just stared at the stranger, not comprehending what had just been said. But still, he complied. Maybe he was just too tired. Maybe staring at the blood didn’t actually help. Maybe he didn’t want to see the unblinking eyes of his parents anymore.

Sometime later – and Dick really didn’t know how much time had gone by – another stranger joined the first. This one was dressed in a trench coat and his voice was too silent for Dick to understand when he whispered something in stranger Number One’s ear. Not that Dick was trying to listen, anyway. He couldn’t care less what happened to him.

His parents were dead.

And he hadn’t yet started believing it.

He was no longer an active participant of his own life, things just happened to him. There were people around him, asking him if he was okay, what he needed, and Dick could only stare. The first man had buried Dick in his jacket, giant by comparison, and the second one was talking, now with Dick instead of over him:

“Hey. I know you don’t want to do anything right now, but we have to take you with us to the police. They need your statement. But we’ll try to bring you back to your family as fast as possible, okay?”

Dick didn’t hear him. His mind was just an ongoing stream of pain. His parents were dead. He had seen them fall. And fall. And fall. 

They were moving now, and Dick’s brain had a hard time following. Someone was carrying him, and his eyes closed almost against his will, the strong arms supporting his back too close to his Tati’s embrace. If he didn’t open them, he could act as if nothing was wrong. If only it would be this easy to stop hearing, to keep the voices outside, but instead they decided to partake in this mess. His brain mixed it all up. He heard the voices of bystanders, the yell of his Mami, the cry of his Tati, the police asking him questions. It was horrible. He wanted out. But no matter how much he tried to vanish into the jacket, it didn’t work. Instead the embrace holding him tightened, giving him the support he so clearly needed.

“Does he even speak English?”

“Gordon, if you need someone… you have my number. If the kid needs something, call me.”

“Fucking circus freaks. Now we have to clean this mess up…”

“Johnson! Stop that right now and do your job!”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Oh, no, not the Graysons… they were so young. And their boy.”

“They’re not from around here, I would bet.”

“Dick! My boy! Dick! Give him to me!”

That last one, Dick knew that last one. It was someone he knew. It was Pop Haly. Dick lifted his head at that, from the nook on the stranger’s neck where it had fallen after staying lucid had become too exhausting. The man was sweaty, pale, with tear tracks running down his face. Dick thought that that had to be what he looked like too. When Pop opened his arms to take Dick, he complied. He let himself be pushed into the embrace of his somewhat granddad, breathing in a scent much more familiar than the aftershave of the stranger carrying him.

“My boy. Oh, my poor, poor boy. I’ve got you.”

Pop’s words could only barely pierce the curtain of grief laying on Dick, but they managed to get deeper than any of the other sentiments previously had. Pressed safely against the chest of the closest thing to family Dick currently had left, the others started talking:

“Hello, Mr. Haly, I guess? I am Captain James Gordon, the detective in charge of this case. This is Bruce Wayne, he was in the audience and reacted fast enough to shield Dick from some of… the more gruesome visuals.”

“Thank you. But what do you want?”

“Did you notice anything off? One of my techs told me that the trapeze rope had most likely been tempered with. We’re going to start an investigation, but any information could be helpful to us.”

“My best acrobats just died, I am holding their son, and you are trying to tell me they have been murdered?”

Dick flinched when their voices got loud. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to have to listen to this. He wanted his Mami and Tati. He wanted his trailer and the stuffed elephant that looked just like Zitka.

He wanted to forget that their deaths hadn’t been an accident.

Pop started rubbing his back and humming soothing circus tunes when he noticed Dick’s reaction. Both the captain and the other man murmured excuses, but Dick wasn’t listening. Again. He just wanted to disappear.

They must have continued talking, because suddenly the Captain was standing in front of him, a sad look on his face:

“Dick? Can you look at me please?”

Dick tried his best, but it was so hard to make his eyes stay open, to not let them close and take him away into oblivion. But after what seemed like minutes his eyes _did_ manage to focus on Gordon.

“Thank you. It… I… I have to take you with me to the precinct, still. You are a minor, so things are a bit more complicated and I can’t let you stay here to take your statement. But as soon as we figured everything out, you will be returned to Mr. Haly here, okay?”

What was he supposed to do besides nod? For the umpteenth time this night Dick was passed into the arms of yet another stranger. If his mind had been able to process what was going on around him, he would have protested. He was nine after all and more than capable of walking himself. Not right now, though. Right now, the closeness of another body made sure that he didn’t vanish completely.

“We’ll be there for you Dickie. Everything is going to be alright. You go with Mr. Gordon here and before you’ll know it, you’ll be back here, and we can grief together. Never forget: Circus means Family. And Family means nobody gets left behind.”

With one last squeeze of his hand, Pop Haly disappeared into the crowd of police officers, onlookers and circus folk. Dick let his eyes follow his granddad, making sure that Pop didn’t suddenly stop working like his parents had. Only when the man had completely vanished from his sight, did Dick realize that Gordon was talking to him:

“- and there we go. They just cleared me from the crime scene, so we can go and drive to the precinct now. Thank you, Bruce, for staying with me until now but you should go home to Alfred. And Dick? You have to untangle yourself from me, if we want to get moving. The car is right here.”

Gordon was delicate when he loosened the steely grip Dick had on his shoulders. He was so much more cautious than Mami and Tati had ever been in handling him. They knew that Dick was strong, that he wouldn’t break easily. He was a trapeze artist after all. But still, it was this delicate touch, as if Dick would disintegrate at a moment’s notice (and didn’t he want just that?) that made him realize that he hadn’t yet cried.

Not one tear had run down his cheek, no sob had torn through him. Dick was silent. Dick was absent. But Dick wasn’t crying.

He just really, really wanted to.

Dick was positioned on the front seat of the police car and he watched as Gordon walked over to the other side, before getting in the driver’s seat. Dick would never let another person out of his sight. He hadn’t looked after his parents and they had died. It would never happen again, Dick swore himself. They would be the only ones to die because Dick looked away.

He must have started to doze off because the next thing Dick knew, he was listening to Gordon having a conversation on the phone, voice tight and not soothing at all:

“What does that mean, Rodriguez?”

“It means that the Chicago PD filled a lawsuit against the Haly’s Circus Company on the matter of child abuse and child endangerment.”

“Fuck”

“Yeah. The kid can’t go-“

“Not now, Rodriguez. Not now, please.”

When Dick finally opened his eyes, Gordon was looking at him. His face managed to be somehow even sadder than it had been before.

“We’re here. Let’s get you inside and into new clothes, and then we can get you a hot chocolate and take your statement, yes?”

When Dick didn’t answer, Gordon took a deep breath. The man was in his early forties, a mustache equal to Pop’s decorating his face, but Dick had the vague feeling that he didn’t look so old all the time. Or maybe he did, and Dick just didn’t know how people looked who hadn’t grown up surrounded by the warmth of a circus family.

“Dick, I… Look, I… It’s…”

Gordon couldn’t find his words. Maybe he finally understood how Dick was feeling. It was weird being so dried up. Normally Dick could talk all day long. He would tell stories and jokes and fun facts. But the moment his parents had fallen each and every word inside of Dick had packed its bag and moved out.

“I… we’ll go inside and then I have to make a few phone calls.”

Whatever Gordon had wanted to say hadn’t been able to leave his mouth. Dick knew that much. But right now, it was really hard to find it in him to care. Instead he just nodded. What else was he supposed to do?

His parents were dead and the world as he knew it had ceased to exist.

It had taken six months until someone finally managed to get him out of Juvenile Hall. The guards had told him this morning that someone had filed for him to become their foster kid, and Dick didn’t know what he thought about that.

He had imagined it. Of course. His head had been filled with dreams of Pop Haly or Jack or Samantha showing up and saving him for months before reality had finally sunken in: He was alone. Left behind. Cast away.

 _Circus means family and family means nobody gets left behind_. Except when it came to him.

But now someone else wanted to have him. Someone wanted to free him of this prison full of sad and cruel kids. And as much as Dick resented the idea of being bought or belonging to someone else, it had to be better than the guards who liked to beat them up, or the slurs that were constantly hurled in his direction.

If Dick had at least been capable of defending himself. But, no, words still refused to come out of his mouth when he needed them and every time his body answered a hit with one of his own, Dick felt as if he was disappointing his parents.

Tati hadn’t taught him to fight just for him to beat up a bunch of kids. Especially a bunch of kids who were just as much victims as Dick was.

But the constant abuse was slowly eating him alive. It was hard enough to find appetite on a good day (if they even still existed) and near impossible to do so after he had once again been reminded of his heritage, of his muteness, of his dead parents. Sleep eluded him and after Batman forced him to go back to Juvie, he couldn’t even run across rooftops to calm himself down.

He was stuck. And with every day he spent in this hell, he craved death more. It was weird to think like that. Dick could still remember being happy. He could recall riding Zitka and singing lullabies with Mami. He remembered campfire sing-a-longs and hugs and love and happiness. But each and every memory was tainted by this thing he no longer had: parents.

Maybe he wanted this after all. Maybe he was okay with someone getting him out of here. It had to be better than this. Everything had to be better than this.

Dick wasn’t dumb or naïve enough to think that adults were worth anything. He knew that the guards were assholes and that most of the others in here had ended up in Juvenile Hall after their parents used them as punching bags once too often. But Dick would take an adult beating him up over the slowly decapitating hell of Juvie any day.

When the guard came for him – Dick had never quite managed to bring himself to learn their names – Dick had come to a conclusion: He would willingly go. He would be on his best behavior. And then he would run away.

It felt weird to be led through these halls, for once being brought towards freedom, instead of further down into the abyss. His Gotham Juvenile T-Shirt felt more and more ill-fitting with every step he took. The other kids were staring at him and Dick could read in their gazes that the younger ones were envious of him, while the older ones pitied him.

He was walking towards fresh air and sunlight, but he couldn’t ignore the possibility of a death sentence being signed.

Finally, they reached the door that led to the visiting and check-out area. Dick didn’t know how much longer he could stand that feeling of doom. This was supposed to be good. He had decided that this was good. He had made a choice. But why did it still feel so wrong?

On the other side of the door a familiar face was waiting for him. Sadly, however, it wasn’t one of the familiar faces Dick had secretly hoped for. The stifling sense of disappointment that befell him when he saw that it was neither Pop Haly nor Jack nor Samantha nor Abedi nor Anette waiting for him, told him just how successful he had been in crushing his own hopes. Still, a familiar face. Or better yet: Two.

Gordon and the man from the circus were standing there. In the last few months Dick had figured out who that had been: Bruce Wayne. The richest man in Gotham. Possibly the world. Gordon was smiling at him, a sad one, but Dick had only a glare to give to the captain. The man had betrayed him. Had taken him away from the circus, told him that everything would be alright, only for Dick to end up in this racist hole.

Bruce Wayne on the other hand looked solemn, as if he knew just how delicate the situation was. Dick noticed things he hadn’t been in the right mind to notice when they first met: Just how big the man was, the intelligent glint in his eyes, the sadness caught in the corner of his mouth. Dick decided to like him. And if Bruce disappointed him just like everyone else? Well, Dick has always been more than happy to run away from his problems.

“Captain Gordon, Mr. Wayne. Here is the boy. We have a bag of his possessions that one of my colleagues is currently fetching but other than that everything should be good to go. I heard that you already finished all of the paperwork.”

The guard’s voice was harsh, and Dick was pretty sure he was the only one who heard the muttered “Why he wants the freak is beyond me”. People no longer cared what Dick heard or didn’t hear. They thought just because words eluded him, his hearing had fallen short too. Of course, that only applied when it was convenient for them. Dick couldn’t count the amount of times he’d been hit because he hadn’t been ‘listening’.

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson. You can leave now; we will take it from here.”

Gordon’s smile was strained when he directed it towards the guard and Dick got the feeling that Gordon didn’t like the personnel of Juvenile Hall either.

“If you’re sure?”

“Yes. We are.”

The guard was hesitating but, with one last look at the height disparities between Bruce and Dick, he decided that it was probably safe enough to let them be alone together. Now Dick was left alone standing in front of two very powerful men. He was acutely aware that they would be able to do anything with him and he could do nothing about that.

“It’s good to see you, Dick.”

Dick wished he could say the same, but there was no part of him that was happy to see Captain James Gordon. Instead he nodded. That had to be polite enough.

“I’m sorry how this all turned out, but I have good news: Bruce over here” – the man in question waved – “decided that he would like to help you. He offered to take you in. Bruce?”

“Yes, Mr. Gordon is correct. I was there that night. I don’t know if you remember me?”

Dick nodded again. At least they were talking to him and not over him. He had missed being talked to like a person worth conversing with.

“Something similar happened to me. My parents were killed, too. So, I know your pain. And when I found out what happened to you, I had to help you.”

Dick doubted that anyone could know what his pain felt like. It was unique, just like every kind of hurt was unique. But maybe Bruce would be capable of understanding. Of connecting.

“So, I am going to ask you this question and you can answer however you like, okay? I’m not gonna hurt you, no matter what you say. Do you want to come and live with me?”

Yes. No questions asked. Dick wanted out of the Juvenile Hall. He wanted to breath fresh air and eat something that tasted like food. He wanted to feel alive again. He would have gone with Gordon if he had to, just to get out of here, but Bruce seemed like a much better option. A safer one.

He nodded.

Slowly a smile spread over Bruce’s face. Dick had the feeling that the man wasn’t someone who smiled very often. Dick didn’t return the gesture. But he took a step in the right direction. Towards Bruce.

Living in the Manor was weird. It was gigantic for one. You could fit three circuses in here and still have space to fill. It was empty for another: Dick’s only company was Bruce and Alfred, the butler. He wasn’t even allowed to talk to the gardeners who frequented the Manor grounds because Bruce was so afraid he might get kidnapped.

Which was also the reason why Dick was currently being homeschooled. Bruce had sent him to a therapist, and they had both decided that Dick was too ‘traumatized’ and ‘still in shock’ to visit a public school. And yet Dick missed people.

But at least he had Alfred. The old man taught him for a few hours each day, but most of the time Dick just enjoyed shadowing him. Words still eluded him most days, and Alfred never talked down on him because of that. Instead the butler had taken to filling the silence with stories of his past touring England with his theater company. The tales reminded Dick of home, but in a safe way. A way that strengthened the memories of all the things he loved when it came to living on the road with a close group of friends, without being too similar to the kind of family a circus usually was.

Not that his circus was his family anymore. They had left him behind, after all. And family never left anyone behind. Ever.

But back to Alfred. Dick also liked how the man always told Dick when he was being clever. Alfred said that Dick must have had a great teacher before, and Dick could imagine the proud smile on his Mami’s face at the compliment. Dick liked learning, he loved it, really, he just preferred to do it while moving and his Mami had understood that. Had encouraged it.

At the beginning he and Alfred had their difficulties because of that – and maybe Dick shouldn’t have used the chandelier as a trapeze to memorize math formulas – but once Alfred had realized just what the problem was, he had re-designed his teaching methods and now Dick was allowed to stretch and bend while learning algebra and English. And it was going great.

At the end of each day Dick presented his new knowledge to Bruce after dinner. The man was busy, and they were only able to spend a couple of hours a day together, but Dick tried to make the best out of it. He didn’t want to complain too much, because this was so much better than the Juvenile Hall and he knew that none of the other kids there would ever have the luck of being taken in by the richest man of the city, but Dick was lonely. So, so lonely.

So, each evening he prepared his worksheets, his essays, his pencil drawings to show them to Bruce. And then Bruce would read over them, smile and tell Dick how proud of him he was. Sometimes, when Dick had even finished the extra worksheets that Alfred liked to supply, he got a pat on the back or a timid hug. It was the _best._

Because if Dick knew one thing, it was the fact that Bruce Wayne was not a tactile person. But Dick was. In the circus everyone was constantly touching him and without the infrequent hugs and pats on the back from Bruce, Dick would have lost his mind already.

The nightmares were already bad enough, he didn’t need complete touch deprivation to fill up his trauma barometer.

But Bruce’s timid touches were the closed Dick got to the constant contact of loved ones he could get. It was weird to think of Bruce as a person he loved. They had only really known each other for a bit over a year now, and Bruce was already the most important person Dick knew. That might have been because he barely knew anyone anymore, but it might just be because Bruce had been the nicest anyone had been to Dick in a really long time. 

And now he craved it, this knowledge that Bruce liked him too. That Dick hadn’t been a mistake. That Bruce wanted him to be here. That he was loved back.

Which made it so much more frustrating when his words denied him to tell Bruce just what he was thinking. Like right now, with Dick crying because he slipped on the stairs and skinned his knee. With Bruce kneeling in front of him, asking him what was wrong:

“Chum? Just tell me how bad it hurts. If words are too much, use the signs Alfred taught you. I know you’ve been working on them”

But his hands were shaking too much. His whole life had flashed before his eyes when his foot caught itself on the edge of a carpet and he couldn’t stop himself from falling down the stairs. He had seen it all again just then: The look of horror in his parent’s eyes when the rope snapped. The cries of anguish. His own hopelessness.

“I… no… I-“

It didn’t work. He had been getting better. Some days nothing was stopping him from speaking anymore. Some days it felt like before, when words had been his friends, things he could play with, instead of balls of dung clogging up his airways.

“It’s alright. Take a deep breath, Dick. One… Two… Three… you’re doing great.”

He was trying. He was really, really trying. But it just didn’t want to work.

“I… I’m---”

Tears were running down his cheeks, making it impossible for him to see Bruce. They were tears of pain, of panic, but also of embarrassment. No matter how hard he tried, a part of him had died that night with his parents and Dick hadn’t yet gotten it back.

And Bruce seemed to be seeing just that in Dick’s eyes, because the next thing he knew Bruce was pressing him against his chest. Warmth flooded Dick’s veins at the sudden contact trying it’s best in chasing the turmoil away. He never wanted this to stop. The smell of Bruce’s cologne had long ago stopped being foreign, instead it had started to become a sign of safety, of home. It tickled his nose just now, too, and when Dick breathed it in, he could feel himself calm down, almost as if against his will.

“It’s alright, chum. Some days are just like this. Take your time.”

And Dick did. For a few precious moments he just breathed, enjoying the embrace, feeling warm and safe for once. His rabid fire pulse slowed down and before he knew it his breathing regulated itself. He still didn’t want to talk, wasn’t sure if he even could, but he no longer felt like dying.

Bruce sensed that too, slowly untangling himself from Dick, so he could look him over:

“Better?”

Dick nodded. His face felt hot and tense, the skin tight with dried tears. Still he didn’t want to vanish anymore. He was back in the Manor, the big top left behind together with the bodies of his Mami and Tati.

“Do you think you can explain it to me now?”

He could try.

“I… it…”

Deep breath.

“Falling. It felt like falling. Really scary.”

The words rushed from his mouth; Dick too afraid of losing his ability to speak to formulate complete sentences. Fragments had to do. And Bruce understood him. He got this sad look in his eyes that always appeared when he was either reminded what Dick had been through or what he himself had survived.

“Thank you so much for sharing. Do you think it would help if we went downstairs, drank a hot chocolate, and cuddled in front of a fire?”

Dick nodded. And the moment Bruce swooped him up, cradling him against his chest, Dick decided that he would be okay if Bruce was his new dad. Not his Tati, there could only be one Tati, but Bruce could be his dad. Warm and safe, Dick felt as if that was the best choice he had made in a long time.

Dick was vibrating with joy, when he went to bed months later. He and Bruce had spent the whole day outside, tracking through the woods on the east end of the Manor grounds, and talking about going camping out there someday. It had been nice; the sun had felt great on Dick’s skin and he hadn’t thought sad thoughts the whole time they were outside.

Now, dressed in his favorite PJs he recounted their adventures for Zitka, his grey plush elephant:

“And then Bruce tripped. He is so graceful normally, but that stick just crept up on him. It was really funny. If we go camping, I am going to take you with me. And then you can see how funny Bruce is when he is not wearing suits.”

Dick laughed at the image in his head of Bruce wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. It had looked so wrong. But before he could explain to Zitka just why it had been wrong, a polite cough interrupted him:

“That is quite the tale, Master Dick, but I believe a sleepy-time tea is in order. It is after 10pm and you should be in bed.”

Alfred didn’t sound mad, instead he sounded like the exasperated grandfather he was. Dick sent a grin his way, knowing that Alfred couldn’t stay mad at him when words were this easy and laughter this free.

“I was on my way to the bathroom, Alfie, promise.”

“I know. And it is good to hear that Master Bruce did make a fool of himself out there. He needs to be pushed down a peg or two every now and then.”

Dick didn’t really like it when Alfred made jokes on the expanse of Bruce, but he could see the twinkle in Alfred’s eyes and knew that he didn’t mean it harmfully. But still, Bruce had given Alfred work, he shouldn’t make fun of him. Alfred seemed to sense Dick’s unease and hurried along, bringing him the tea and making sure that Dick was _really_ going to bed.

And Dick was in bed. His eyes were already fighting to stay open by the time Alfred made his last check in before retiring himself. Bruce went to his study at 9pm each night and Dick wasn’t allowed to disturb him while he was working in there. It rarely bothered him, he just missed the opportunity for bedtime stories and goodnight kisses, but he knew that Bruce had important things to do.

(And Dick was allowed to wake him up, if the nightmares got really bad)

Which made Alfred his nighttime companion, checking in on him, and making sure that Dick brushed his teeth. It was a well-known routine for all of them by now, and Dick thought, while drifting off into sleep, that the real Zitka would probably be real confused if he told her what his life was like since he left the circus.

It felt like only moments later when his eyes flew open again. It was dark now, not only in his room, but also in the hallway behind the door, which was always slightly ajar in case Dick needed to get something from the kitchen or Bruce during the night. Something had woken Dick and for once he didn’t think that it had been a nightmare. The racing pulse was missing and so was the nausea that liked to plague him.

Instead his arms were covered in goosebumps. Something was wrong. But no matter how much Dick concentrated, no matter how closely he listened, he couldn’t pinpoint the reason for his nervous vigil.

That was until his bed creaked under the pressure of another body and a hand smothered Dick’s surprised yell before he could react. It was dark so Dick couldn’t see who was attacking him, all he knew was the feeling of a body pressing him down into the mattress, and the distressing sensation of his airflow being blocked.

His wild thrashing did nothing to throw his attacker off and Dick really regretted not taking Bruce’s offer for self-defense training. The body above him didn’t react at all when Dick finally managed to connect his knee with what he suspected was the crotch of the assailant, instead they pressed down harder. Dick had never wanted to know what it felt like to be strangled.

His pulse was thrumming loudly in his ears and the need for oxygen had gone from slightly noticeable to I FUCKING NEED IT RIGHT NOW. Dick wanted to fight. He wanted to push the assailant away from him, but his arms and legs no longer had the energy to keep going. Instead they just flopped down like noodles, and it had to be the lack of air, but Dick kind of wanted to giggle at that mental image. That was, of course, before his survival instincts kicked in and a new surge of adrenaline flooded his body.

He needed air. He wanted it. His struggling was no longer following any logic, just wild thrashing in the hopes of being allowed a breath of fresh, fresh air. But still, he was 11, small for his age, and his attacker obviously trained. No matter how fast his heart beat, how much he silently screamed for help, how wildly his arms flailed – Dick had no chance. Darkness bled into his vision, feeling more real than the inky blackness inhabiting the Manor did. He was going to pass out soon. And the more the need for oxygen began to hurt, the more okay Dick was with it.

Which was why Bruce chose this moment to save Dick. There was bright light, followed by a heavy thump and suddenly Dick could breathe again. What followed were several minutes of Dick just laying on his bed, taking deep breaths, while Bruce took care of the attacker.

Real awareness only came back to Dick when Bruce was suddenly leaning over him, a hand cautiously on Dick’s neck, checking for injuries with his eyes.

“You okay, chum?”

Bruce didn’t even sound out of breath.

“Hm”

Man, Dick’s throat hurt. And even if his throat had been perfectly fine, the shock of what just happened would have chased the words needed for forming sentences and speaking away. Instead Dick nodded. And while the action hurt, it was not a lie. Dick was scared and frightened and adrenaline was pumping through his veins but apart from the scratching throat, he was okay.

“Good. That is good.”

And Bruce really did sound relieved. His giant hand had gone from holding him to stroking his hair and in any other situation Dick would have been more than ready to go back to sleep, safe with Bruce so close by. But not today. Not right now. He needed to know what had happened.

It was a struggle to sit up and push Bruce’s comfort away. But Dick was curious in nature and even a near death experience couldn’t quell his need to see what had happened with his own two eyes. He didn’t need to look far for an answer.

“Dick, stop-“

But Dick had already seen: The door to his room was pushed wide open, the comforter at the end of the bed thrown onto the ground. In the corner of the room, the one farthest away from the bed, a figure laid bound. The person – and Dick couldn’t tell what gender they had – was dressed in all black, gold accents decorating the uniform. Weird goggles made it impossible to see the eyes and a mask hid the rest of the face as well. From Dick’s perch on top of the bed, he could see the weapons, the danger basically radiating of the attacker, but he could also see the wounds Bruce had inflicted, the professionally tied knots that held the assailant in their place.

“This is nothing nice to look at. Please, Dick, turn around”

Bruce’s hand was on his shoulder and Dick complied. When his eyes found Bruce, he realized just how conflicted the man looked. Something else was going on.

“Wha-?”

 _What is going on?,_ Dick wanted to ask. But, of course, his words wouldn’t follow his lead. Signing was an option, but Dick didn’t like how people could chose to ignore him, when he spoke with his hands. But as always Bruce understood him. His dad came to a conclusion, he made a decision and Dick was more than ready for whatever that decision was.

“There is something I need to show you, Dick. But it is a secret and I need you to promise me to never tell anyone.”

Who was Dick supposed to tell? He could count the people he knew and cared about on one hand: Alfred, Bruce. That’s it. But Dick nodded anyways.

“I need you to say it.”

Now that was just unfair. Dick took a deep breath, enjoying the air that rushed down his throat, even enjoying the pain that came with the expansion of his thorax, and willed himself to speak. Nothing came. Of course not. This wasn’t how it worked. If Dick could only talk when he really, really wanted it, he would have quite a few problems less.

No, he wasn’t surprised by his own inability, what really hurt was the disappointment in Bruce’s eyes. Dick was fast to sign ‘sorry’, to tell Bruce that he ‘promised! Of course, I promise’. And after what seemed like an eternity, Bruce finally nodded, easing the oppressing tension that had laid itself over Dick.

“Okay. I’ll show you. But I really want you to work on your speech.”

Dick would. He would do anything to make sure he didn’t have to disappoint Bruce anymore, especially when it came to such important things like promises. Dick wanted to be able to promise Bruce the world. He wanted to be able to tell him just how much he loved him without his throat closing up.

Bruce stood up, and Dick was quick to follow, but he hadn’t expected for Bruce to bend down and pick the attacker up. It looked so easy when Bruce did it, so effortless, nothing like when Dick had fought for his life.

They were silent, the three of them, when they left Dick’s room and went down the hallway. Bruce by choice, Dick by circumstance, and the attacker due to the fact that Bruce had gagged them. The longer they walked, the more Dick realized that they were walking in the direction of Bruce’s study, the one room he wasn’t allowed in. It made sense. What other place was there to keep a secret in.

The suspense was slowly killing him when they finally reached their destination – or what Dick had thought of as their destination. But instead of stopping, of letting the attacker down, Bruce swiftly stepped towards the grandfather clock and changed the time.

Dick liked to imagine that there had been a creak when he saw the entrance to the Bat-Cave open for the first time, but he knew that Bruce kept everything well-oiled and silent. Now, however, Dick was just confused. Where there had been no door only moments earlier, there was now a dark hallway leading deeper into the Manor than Dick had previously thought possible.

A secret passage. That was so cool.

Bruce smiled at him then, and Dick felt warm all over. Bruce wanted to share this with him. Wanted him to know whatever secret he had, a secret he had probably never told anyone besides maybe Alfred.

In front of them a cave opened up. It was giant. Dick couldn’t even see the end of it. There were at least a dozen cars, and rows over rows of weapons and gadgets in rags or laying on workbenches. A giant computer stood in the center of this magnificent mess. Dick could feel the giddiness bubble up.

This was great. This was magical. Bruce was… Bruce was Batman.

He couldn’t stop himself from turning around, from sending Bruce a wide-eyed stare. Dick was sure his mouth was hanging open. The man in question only grinned. It seemed as if Dick’s reaction had greatly satisfied him.

“You-? Bat?”

“Yes. I am Batman”

This was the greatest day of Dick’s life and considering it had included almost being strangled to death by a stranger that meant something. Dick could feel the iron bars holding his words hostage loosen up.

“This is great! Wonderful! Sooooo cool!”

“Settle down, chum. We have work to do: Your attacker doesn’t question himself!”

Together they walked deeper into the cave. Dick’s eyes couldn’t stop looking at everything new they came across. The car Batman used to beat up criminals, the throwing weapons, the training area… There was so much to look at and Dick would never be full of seeing it all. After a considerable walk, they reached a new part of the Bat-sement: A secluded space with a holding cell.

Bruce dumped the bound figure on the floor of the cell, before loosening the gag enough for them to be able to speak. He had signaled for Dick to stay behind, so Bruce was the only one directly in the room when he asked:

“What do you want? Who sent you?”

At first Dick thought nobody would answer. The silence stretched further and further before a voice, scratchy from disuse, finally emerged:

“Gray Son of Gotham, the Court of Owls has claimed you as theirs.”

“What?”

Dick was the one who had spoken this time. Even outside of the holding cell, he had heard everything and whatever the attacker had just said made no sense at all.

“The Court of Owls has claimed you as theirs, Gray Son of Gotham. Come with me willingly or force will be used.”

“Enough! Dick will not come with you! Tell us who this Court is! Who are your masters?”

The attacker didn’t react at all to Bruce’s harsh words even though Dick wanted to curl up and hide far away from them. He hated it when Bruce got mad. Bruce got real scary when his voice was raised like this. But this time it wasn’t directed at Dick. He was safe. The attacker? Not so much.

“Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time,  
Ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime.  
They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed.  
Speak not a whispered word about them, or they'll send the Talon for your head.”

The nursery rhyme sent a shiver down Dick’s spine and he couldn’t even say if it was because of the creepy way the attacker sang it or because of the actual lyrics. All he could be sure of was the fact that Bruce’s face got a weird thoughtful look when he heard the words.

But before Dick could contemplate the mystery any further, the attacker started to struggle – and when they realized that there would be no escape, they made a weird motion with their mouth, one that had Bruce yelling “No!”, before going slack.

It had been so fast. So quick. But now Dick was pretty sure that his unknown assailant had just committed suicide. And all Dick could do was stand there and look, while Bruce tried to make the attacker breath again. He didn’t succeed. The attacker stayed dead and Dick kept standing.

Maybe this wasn’t the greatest day of his life after all.

Knowing Bruce was Batman didn’t change much, except make him even cooler. Dick no longer had to wonder where Bruce went when 9 o’clock came around, he knew that Bruce would be going down into the Bat-cave, suit up, and save the world. And wasn’t that just the coolest thing imaginable?

Dick was the only kid on the planet who could claim that Batman was their dad.

And Dick liked to think that Bruce didn’t regret telling him. Bruce had been a bit weird after the Talon – Bruce found out what to call them! – fiasco, but Dick could honestly understand why. Someone had killed themselves right in front of their eyes, something like that would shake even the most hardened of warriors. It had certainly shaken Dick. 

But now, this close to his twelfth birthday, Dick was over it. Really. No one needed to know that he still dreamt about the still form, that had stopped moving as if someone had cut their strings. Bruce had overcome the debacle, so Dick had too. That was how the world worked.

Dick wasn’t allowed down in the Bat-cave often, only when Bruce decided to teach him self-defense, but he had spent enough time down there, to really revolutionize Bruce’s way of naming things. Dick had officially named everything down there: The Bat-cave, the Bat-mobile, the Bat-computer, the Batarangs…

Now he only had to tell Bruce of this important and very official change. Which was probably why he was sneaking through the Manor well past his bedtime. Bruce was usually back around two or three am and Dick’s brain wouldn’t let him sleep until he had told someone his grandiose idea. So, sneaking to meet the Batman it was. 

He was surprised when he finally reached the study only to hear voices. Bruce being awake was normal at this time of the night, but Alfred? Unheard off. The added voice made Dick stop. He didn’t want to intrude, knowing that Bruce really didn’t like being interrupted. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from listening:

“-what I think it is? Bruce? This plan is insane!”

“It is the only way, Alfred.”

“There is always more than one way, Bruce. I thought you knew that. Isn’t that why you created the Batman?”

“This isn’t like that.”

“Then please explain it to me, because clearly I don’t understand.”

They were fighting. They never fought. Dick pressed his ear closer to the door. He needed to know what they were talking about. What if Batman was in danger? What if Bruce was trying to do something dumb and Alfred had to stop him? Maybe that was why Alfred didn’t use ‘Master’ as an honorific like he usually did.

“The Court of Owls is a danger to Gotham, maybe even the world. Didn’t you see the undead assassins they created? They could destroy everything if we don’t stop them. _They need to be stopped_.”

Bruce sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. It was a sad sound and Dick wanted to go in there and hug him. But he didn’t. It wasn’t his place.

“But the boy? What about him? Is saving the city really worth it if he comes to harm?”

“Maybe, Alfred, maybe. And it would do you good if you stopped questioning my decisions.”

“I am the only one around to do it. You sure as hell trained it out of the boy. And if you take it any further, I am going to have to do something. Please, Bruce, don’t force my hand.”

“I am not forcing you to do anything”

“I think you do. And you know it.”

Dick didn’t like the way they talked to each other, didn’t like the dread pooling in his stomach. He suspected that he was ‘the boy’ and that Alfred wouldn’t really appreciate it if Dick told him that he had no problem being in harm’s way if it meant that Bruce could save the city.

So instead he went back to bed, in the hopes that all of this would have blown over by tomorrow.

There would be another chance for him to tell them about the new names. Bruce and Alfred only needed to cool down a bit before that could happen. But Dick had become really good at waiting in the last few years. If waiting and being lonely were Olympic categories, Dick would win silver – Bruce would probably still get first place.

When Dick went down to get breakfast the next morning, however, Alfred was nowhere to be seen and the pinched look on Bruce’s face told Dick that it wasn’t his place to ask about the whereabouts of the butler. So, he didn’t.

Life at the Manor was a bit different after that: Dick had to help clean up, Bruce was in a bad mood a lot more, Dick’s social contacts shrank down to one, and dinner tasted burned more often than not.

But in the core aspects it stayed the same. They still shared their lives, Dick was still exploring the Manor and learning from books he found in the library, and Bruce still taught him how to fight when he had downtime.

Every time Bruce told him how well he had done something, how proud he was, Dick’s heart grew twice its size. Every time Dick would talk and talk to Bruce about a book he found, or a show he watched on cable, and Bruce smiled, Dick felt warm again. And the hugs? As infrequent as they were, Dick loved them. Maybe he loved them exactly because of that and Bruce had made the right choice in restricting them. Dick could probably appreciate them so much more if they were far and few in between.

Sometimes it was weird for Dick to realize that Bruce was his whole world. That he had only seen two people in the last two years. That remembering the circus grew harder with each day, that Mami and Tati didn’t feel like his Mami and Tati anymore. It was weird.

But Dick decided against investigating that feeling further. It was easier if he ignored the unease at the restrictions on the time he was allowed to spend in the garden, or how much TV he was supposed to watch. Some parents let their kids learn how to fly on the trapeze and others were a bit overprotective. Dick could deal with that. Especially when it meant that Dick would get a pat on the back or a crinkle in the corner of Bruce’s eyes when he followed the rules.

Still, it was rare for Bruce to be the one to initiate contact between the two of them. Most of the time he had to rely on himself to know when Bruce was in a mood to talk or fight or eat. Not now. Now, Bruce had been the one to ask Dick to meet him down in the Cave.

Dick was giddy when he opened the grandfather clock to gain access. Since Alfred left Dick hadn’t been allowed downstairs. Bruce probably didn’t want any reminders of the missing piece in their household, so he told Dick to stay away, too. Dick could understand. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t also deeply happy to be back in the Bat-cave. There had been no chance yet to tell Bruce about the names, after all.

It wasn’t Bruce, however, who waited for him. It was Batman. This was the first time Dick saw Batman in his full glory since the night Dick had tried to break out of the Juvenile Hall. It felt weird, even though he knew that Bruce was the one wearing the cowl, even though it was his dad who waited patiently for Dick to go down the stairs and cross the Cave.

“You wanted to see me, Bruce?”

“Come closer.”

Bruce’s voice sounded deeper than usual, more growly. Dick stepped closer nonetheless until he was only a few feet in front of Bruce. They could touch now, if Bruce decided to.

“Good boy.”

It was a futile attempt, but Dick still tried to hide his proud blush by staring down on his favorite sneakers. It was rare for Bruce to compliment him directly like this. Normally Dick had the feeling that he had to beg for Bruce’s attention.

“You’re twelve, have been for a few months now, and I think that means you should be made aware of more adult things.”

Was Bruce trying to give him the talk Dick had heard so much about on TV? But, no, Bruce wouldn’t order him down here for something as trivial as that.

“Okay?”

“You remember the incident with the Court of Owls, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. They finally showed themselves again. The new mayor Lincolm March is a member. They are making their move publicly and I am forced to counter soon.”

“And where do I fit in?”

Dick bit down on his lip as soon as the words had left his mouth. Now that his brain was letting him talk again most of the time, he couldn’t seem to shut up sometimes. Bruce got this pinched look on his face whenever it happened, and Dick could already see it forming:

“Sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Hn. Anyways: I found a connection between the Court of Owls and you. Your great-grandfather on your father’s side, William Cobb, is one of their Talons. Which is why they wanted you all those months back, presumably. Their blood is running through your veins.”

Dick wanted to apologize, but he had learned his lesson. Speaking out of turn only earned disappointment. Dick couldn’t do anything about breaking that rule sometimes, but he could try not to do it this often during one conversation.

Weirdly enough the revelation that one of his ancestors was an undead assassin didn’t faze him much. He couldn’t really remember the way his Tati had smiled, why would he connect with this person he had never met? And yet… it was a villain. It was a bad guy. Dick had the blood of a bad man flowing through his veins, Bruce was right about that.

Did that make him a bad person, too?

“They are playing the long game, turning one city official after the other into one of them. But soon it will be too late. I might need your assistance. What do you think?”

“I want to help.”

And Dick really, really did. He liked people – in theory – and if there was a way in which Dick could make sure that Batman could save someone, Dick would do it. Hell, he had thought about donning his own costume enough times, before discharging the idea as ludicrous.

“How far are you willing to go for the mission?”

“As far as you need me to go.”

And wasn’t that just the truth. If Bruce wanted him to do it, Dick would do it. Because Bruce was his dad. Because Bruce loved him. Because Bruce was all Dick had left.

“Well, then I need you to infiltrate the Court of Owls and take up your birthright: As a Talon of the Court. We need to start playing the long game as well. Are you ready to do that?”

Dick nodded. He had a bad feeling about this.

“I need you to say it.”

“Yes, I am ready”

But he went anyways. For Bruce. Always for Bruce.


	2. Court of Owls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick is entering the Court of Owls just as Bruce had wanted him to, but playing the long game takes more out of Dick than he could have anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Yeah, I realize that is has been some time, but I got suddenly swept with creative ideas, so....  
> Here we are! The tags are there for a reason! Look after yourself and enjoy the ride!  
> If you liked it and enjoyed it, I am always happy about a comment, a kudo or a bookmark! <3

The hands dragging him through the sewers were rough. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, if Dick could see. But when the Court caught him, they had been fast to secure his arms behind his back and his eyes behind a blindfold. Dick struggled anyway.

It was one thing to know that he had to be kidnapped for their infiltration to look believable and another thing entirely to be completely helpless in the hands of the enemy. The smell of death and shit certainly didn’t help.

But after a while the smell changed, and so did the sound of the steps clobbering over the uneven floor. They had probably reached their destination. Dick, it turned out, was right. Only moments later he was dumped onto the floor, the blindfold ripped from his eyes.

Glaring white light flooded his vision and it took too long until his eyes were able to make out his surroundings. He was in an amphitheater, or at least a smaller, whiter version of one. Dick was in the center of the ring, two guards dressed in black and gold uniforms to his left and right. Those two had probably been the guys to kidnap him. In the ranks over stood a hundred people, looking down on Dick from behind soulless white owl masks.

Dick hadn’t known that so many people were involved in the Court of Owls. And if Dick didn’t know it, that meant that Bruce didn’t know it either. Just seeing this many people overwhelmed Dick. He hadn’t been in the company of this many people since before his parents died. His heart panged with the need for a secluded space, a safe space, where only Dick and Bruce were allowed. But no, he had agreed to this mission, had promised, and he would see it through.

“Gray Son of Gotham, you have been brought before us. You will serve us. You will be our Talon. Welcome to the Court of Owls!”

In the center of the stands, directly in front of Dick, a podium was visible. The man standing on top of it – the man who had spoken – looked like all the other soulless owls in the room, but Dick had memorized the voice of Lincolm March. It was Gotham’s mayor who had just proclaimed Dick their property.

Dick’s only answer to the speech was a small whimper and he didn’t even have to fake it. So many different sensations were flooding his system, it was hard to keep his cool.

“We will train you. We will make you bloom. And when you are ready, you will become our Talon, the strongest of them all. Because the Gray Son of Gotham has returned!”

A wave of applause went through the crowd. Their interest in him seemed to go deeper than just a genetic connection to one of their toys, but Dick didn’t have any time to think about that, because his guards had once again grabbed him.

“Hey!”

“Bring him to the labyrinth. We need to make sure our Talon is ready for training.”

Some aspects of the labyrinth were easier to deal with than others. The isolation Dick was okay with, he had experience with it after all. The constant voices, however, were more of a problem. Dick couldn’t take a single step without a “Gray Son – Talon – Gray Son – Ours – Ours – Ours-“ reverberating in his skull. It was slowly getting to him, especially since this was the longest he had ever been apart from Bruce. Ever. And Dick missed his dad. Missed the touch, the warmth, the trust.

But Dick had known going in that there would be a long period of time in which it would be almost impossible for them to have contact. That Dick would only be allowed to see Bruce again after he earned the trust of the Court. Now he only had to make sure that there would be a Dick Grayson left that Bruce could meet.

At least he could talk to himself. It was nobody here to tell him to shut up after all and the sound of his own voice kept the never-ending noise at bay:

“And then Zitka soared through the air and saved the policemen. It was really cool. And I mean, as far as dreams go, it was really logical, too. I mean, I wouldn’t save policemen normally since they suck, but as a hero you kinda have to save everyone. That is the deal, isn’t it? You are a hero that helps people and that means helping everyone. But anyways, Zitka… Zitka is really big for an Asian Elephant, at least she was really big for one the last time I saw her, and her trunk is the most wonderful thing in the world. She is so gentle with it. She can pick up peanuts without destroying them!”

Dick talked and talked and talked. He switched languages to make it harder to understand his tales and he only stopped when the thirst forced him to drink the drugged water. He didn’t know how long he had already been in this cursed labyrinth, but it couldn’t be too long. His hair was still its usual length, and the grime collecting on his body was the dirt of a few days at most.

Still, when the exhaustion got too much Dick could do nothing to keep himself from crying. Sometimes that was the only way he was able to sleep: Crying until his body shut down from exhaustion. The noise was so constant, and yet never constant enough, he couldn’t focus on it, but he was also unable to ignore it. Sometimes his fingers came dangerously close to scratching his ears bloody, which is why he kept his nails short now. Waking up to bleeding ears once was enough.

He wanted his dad. He wanted Bruce. He wanted his stuffed elephant.

He wanted for the noise to stop.

His head thrummed in the rhythm of every _Gray Son,_ with every _Talon,_ with every _Ours_. He feared that even if the noise stopped, his ears would continue to listen, and his brain would continue to tell him just what they heard.

But even worse was the fact that Dick could no longer trust his senses: Sometimes he would turn around and the white hallways behind him were ones he had never walked before. Sometimes he woke up in places he certainly had never seen before. He was constantly thirsty; the hunger so strong Dick had thought about eating one of his shoes. Both were too immediate to tell him how much time had passed.

Dick was utterly, utterly lost.

He just wanted home, but that was no longer an option. And if getting home wasn’t possible then he had to survive. If he couldn’t escape, then he had to make sure that Bruce would at least be proud of him.

If Dick couldn’t win this game, maybe Gray Son did. Or Talon. But one thing was clear: Dick would beat the Court of Owls.

They let him out of there at some point. A point at which Dick had stopped every attempt to measure time, every attempt to converse with himself. A point at which they had almost completely broken him. Almost.

He was still Dick. He still had the urge to talk and to fly and to look out for others. They had just taken away his will to rebel, his need for self-preservation, his shame. They had just gotten their grabby hands on a part of him. Not everything. Never everything.

And after his stay in the labyrinth was over the training began. It was William Cobb who stood in front of him, that very first day, and told him of his legacy, of the great ways of the Talon. And when Dick had spat into Cobb’s face, he had been the one who first struck Dick.

Somewhere in the labyrinth Dick had lost his need for control and safety, only his need for survival had prevailed. Maybe that was because he knew that he couldn’t escape, that it was already too late to back out of this mission, so he could let himself go, he could fight against the changes that happened to him. He could fight for his survival. A fight he only allowed himself because he knew it was fruitless.

But that first hit had only paved the street for the torture of training. Dick was forced to fight against Cobb, a man who took glee in harming him. He was thrown into the arena together with two Talons, both dead, both deadly, and was only allowed to leave if he managed to harm them permanently. They never tired. Dick did. Dick was the one who sustained injury after injury, never fatal but always painful.

Dick was the one who lost it one day and slashed the Talon’s throat with a stolen knife.

Dick was the one who had to watch horrified as the skin on the Talon’s neck started knitting itself back together, healing the monster in seconds. Dick was the one who was so shocked that he didn’t see the fist that was the Talon’s answer to a slit throat.

They continued after that. And Dick realized that he lost it with increasing frequency. His fists didn’t search for the least painful places to hit anymore, but for possible fatal blows. His knives found throats more often than not. He was becoming deadly. But his opponents couldn’t die. At least he wasn’t a murderer, just someone capable of killing. But not a murderer.

Dick couldn’t even remember what the sun looked like, when Cobb told him that the Court wanted to see him. He had been training for what felt like ages, his muscles hadn’t stopped aching since he stepped a foot into this cursed place. And he hadn’t seen the Court, the Parliament, since his very first day here.

(He missed Bruce. He missed his dad. He still cried himself to sleep, dreaming of Bruce and Zitka and – sometimes – Alfred. He missed the Manor and his room and the solitude. He missed being the only thing Bruce cared about. He missed belonging without _belonging_ )

Nobody was restraining him when he knelt in front of the Court this time. It had to be a big meeting because the Grandmaster was there, followed by almost a hundred owls. They were staring at him. Dick didn’t stare back. It wasn’t his place anymore.

“Gray Son of Gotham.”

The name didn’t sound foreign. Hadn’t sounded foreign in a long time now. Dick was only allowed to be Dick in his head, to everyone else he was the Gray Son. A thing. After a while it had stopped hurting. After a while Dick had felt that it was almost appropriate to call him that. Because he was a tool. And most of the time it didn’t even bother him. Other people knew better how to use him than he himself did.

Dick nodded in acknowledgment.

“You have been with us for over a year now. You have trained with us. You have honed your skills. You have achieved great things, if your teachers are to be believed. Now, it is time that you become more, that you become a trusted member of our Court.”

For a moment Dick’s heartbeat wanted to accelerate. It was too soon for him to be turned into a Talon. He was too young. Bruce’s plan would fall apart, if Dick was turned now. But luckily, Grandmaster kept talking:

“If you succeed in this test, you will be granted the honor of fulfilling missions in the Court’s name. An Owling, a messenger and enforcer of the Court. And if you prove yourself in that area, we might even grand you the greatest honor of them all: To become the Talon to lead them all.”

Something loosed in Dick’s chest. It wasn’t too late. He could still contact Bruce, tell him the information Dick had collected in the last year. He might still be able to survive this. To exist outside of the Court. Even if they were playing the long game. Or maybe exactly because of that.

“Bring him in.”

The door behind Dick opened and two guards hauled the bound form of a man in front of Dick, not entirely different to his own entrance into the Court a year prior. The man was crying, if the hitching shoulders were anything to go by, and a pathetic whine was piercing the otherwise silent atmosphere of the arena. Dick let his eyes wander away from the man in front of him, sending a questioning glance in the direction of the Grandmaster.

“You may wonder who he is or what exactly your test is going to be. **He** is your test.”

Dick must have shown his confusion, since the Grandmaster continued:

“Let me elaborate: In times long past, people believed boys turned from children into men at the age of 14. You have reached that age today. You reached the cusp of adulthood. And your test is our birthday present to you.”

It was his birthday. Had he really been here so long? It hurt to realize that today was the second birthday Dick hadn’t been able to celebrate with Bruce. Bruce would have gifted him a bike or a laptop or some time spent together. The Court gifted him a man.

Dick didn’t understand.

“Thank you. But why are you giving this man to me, Grandmaster?”

“Oh, it has been some time, hasn’t it? The man in front of you is Anthony Zucco, the man responsible for the murder of your parents. He tried to blackmail Mr. Haly into giving him protection money and when he didn’t comply, Zucco poured acid over the ropes of your family’s trapeze act, killing them as a consequence. And now we gift you with the opportunity to kill him.”

Dick’s eyes returned to the man on the ground. This shivering, crying mess was his parents’ murderer. Dick had known that they had been killed, had even tried to solve the murder himself once upon a time, but living with Bruce had quelled that need for answers, had made him compliant.

And now the man that had sent his life down this path was kneeling in front of him. Whimpering like a pig ready for the butcher.

His hand closed around the handle of his favorite knife, slowly unsheathing it, when the Grandmaster stopped him with a small gesture:

“Take away his blindfold, Gray Son.”

Dick did. It was weird to see himself reflected in the eyes of a man he hadn’t known existed but despised, nevertheless. It was weird to know that he would kill this man, that this man had killed his Mami, his Tati.

“Please, don’t. Please… It was just a job… you know that, right? A job… We’re all just doing our jobs here… please…”

It made him so angry to hear the sobs coming out of Zucco’s mouth. The man had no right to cry. He had no right to beg for mercy. Dick’s parents hadn’t been allowed to mourn their lives. Dick hadn’t been allowed to grief the life he never had.

Why should an asshole like Zucco get that chance?

Dick pressed the edge of his knife against Zucco’s throat. Cobb always encouraged slit throats when they trained, said it was a sign of the Court of Owls to let their victims bleed to death through a wound that severed head from body. That severed the mind from its tools.

(Dick wished he would be allowed to sever Cobb’s head from his body someday.)

“Well, I am also just doing my job, aren’t I?”

And with that Dick pressed down. But it was different to the throats Dick had slit during training, instead of a sluggish dark red substance, a fountain of blood greeted him. The metallic smell filled Dick’s nose in a matter of seconds and his whole vision was filled with red speckles, settling down on his face, his clothes, his hands, his soul.

He couldn’t turn around fast enough when a wave of nausea overcame him. The bile tasted foul, when Dick threw up on top of the ever growing sea of blood forming in front of him. One glance confirmed what Dick had already known: Zucco was dead, his unseeing eyes staring directly at Dick, his body bloodless laying on the floor of the amphitheater.

Dick had killed someone. Dick had killed a human being. A man. A person.

Dick had killed.

This was something he could never take back, something that made him a murderer, a killer. A monster. Bruce would never be able to look him in the eyes again. No matter how successful this mission would be, Dick would have failed. He had killed. Everyone knew Batman didn’t kill. Batman hated murderers and monsters. And that meant Bruce did too. Bruce would hate him, too.

Oh, God. A moment of weakness and Dick had destroyed everything.

The ranks around him filled with applause and cheering. He had done what the Court wanted from him. He had abided their laws.

Dread settled deep in Dick’s stomach. His hands were red, stained in the color of death, the color Dick had spilled. He would be a murderer for the rest of his life no matter what happened next. No matter how many lives he saved from here on out. Dick would always be a murderer. A monster.

And there he sat, being celebrated as one of their own by the Court of Owls, staring at the death in front of him, at the sticky red covering everything, and wished he had made a different choice.

Wished he had never come here at all.

He sat alone in his cell the weeks following the gruesome night that had changed his life. Again. He saw Zucco’s soulless eyes every time he closed his, the smell of blood following him no matter how often he washed his hands. He was ready to break. He wouldn’t. Of course not. But he was ready to do so.

Bruce would be terribly disappointed in him.

Dick was a murderer. Someone horrible. Someone not worth loving, not worth saving.

It was harder and harder to find it in him to care each day, to hold onto that part of himself that was Dick Grayson and not Gray Son, obedient servant to the Court. The only thing that helped was talking. The Court could take away his freedom, his will to survive, his need for love, but it couldn’t take away this thing Dick had fought years to regain: His words.

It was weird talking to himself, but Dick didn’t care. He stared at the blank wall, in this blank room and talked. Sometimes it was in Russian, sometimes in Romani, sometimes in Spanish, and sometimes in English, no matter the language the fact remained: He talked.

“Why does English do the things it does? Like most languages have prepositions that follow rules. Russian does for sure! But English? You’re on your own, buddy. I mean, English can claim to be easy all they want with their singular The, but I’ll take the German ‘der, die, das’ over it every single day. And what the fuck is their problem with pronouncing things the same when they are spelled the same way?”

He could go on and on in his ramblings, not even stopping when one of the guards told him to. Maybe he wanted them to be angry. Once, when they were really annoyed with him, Dick was forced to fight against other trainees, the other Owlings. It was weird to find out that other children were caught up in this hell too. That he wasn’t the only one suffering at the hands of the Court.

They hadn’t been able to talk, but Dick felt weirdly soothed, knowing that he wasn’t the only one. That he might be lonely but wasn’t alone.

Oh god… Dick wanted Bruce. He wanted his bed, and Zitka, and chocolate cookies, and… and Bruce. He wanted to feel the strong arms of his dad crushing him against his chest and he wanted that warm feeling that came whenever Bruce told him how good Dick was.

Something that would never happen ever again.

So, what if Dick cried himself to sleep? So, what if Dick felt closer to breaking each and every day? At least he had his words, at least he had his ramblings. At least he was capable of filling the silence.

“Just because England was a bitch and colonized everyone, doesn’t mean that they should be the ones whose language we all speak. I mean, Romani čhib is right there? It is similar to Sanskrit – at least aunty Anita said so – and it sounds really cool. Or were they related? The languages, I mean. Unimportant. It is a cool language and far too few people speak it. Now, do I prefer Balkan Romani or Vlax Romani? I don’t know. I only speak Balkan Romani, so I might be biased-“

Dick talked himself through the night. It was the closest he came to keeping the nightmares at bay.

It took almost another full year before Dick finally managed to meet Bruce in person again.

The Owlings, as the Court called people like Dick, killers that hadn’t yet earned the prowess and obedience of a Talon, were never sent out to eliminate people, most of their time still spent training, but Dick had been allowed outside of the sewers a few times. Never to kill. Always to observe.

Owlings didn’t get the important missions, the ones about cleaning up the city, no, Owlings were sent into Gotham at night to deliver messages and gather information. Dick loved it. It was freedom, it was joy, it was everything that made him miss the life aboveground.

Except for Bruce.

Before the mission had started Bruce had promised him to regularly check the secret hide-outs that Batman had all over the city; hidey-holes, chimneys, and roomy closets that Dick used to deliver small messages, whenever he was allowed to leave the Court. As soon as Cobb or one of the members of the parliament – never the Grandmaster – told Dick that he would be going out, Dick scribbled everything he knew on the scraps of paper he had stolen with a pen he was forbidden from owning.

Owlings didn’t need things like books or paper or pens or fun. Owlings only needed to be silent and to fight. Dick kind of sucked at being the first, but he made it up in the raw skill he had when it came to fighting. Maybe that’s why he only got beatings and whippings when a misdemeanor was discovered, instead of death. Maybe they saw something in him. Unimportant. The only thing that counted was the fact that they didn’t kill him and that made it possible for Dick to collect data. Data that he could give to Bruce. That he could use to earn the love of his dad back.

Zucco was no longer the only person Dick had killed. Blood painted his hands permanently red. Yes, Owlings weren’t allowed outside to kill, but the Court tested their loyalties constantly. Almost once a month someone was brought in front of Dick for him to kill. Sometimes they told him of the crimes the offender had committed, sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes the crimes were horrid – rape, murder, human trafficking – other times they were frivolous: Disrespect, petty theft, or just a case of bad luck.

It didn’t matter. Dick killed every single one of them. And with each throat his knives tore open, with every gush of blood that soaked his clothes, Dick cared a tiny bit less.

Murder was still wrong. Killing the act of a monster. But there was no denying it: Dick was a murderer and he had to go on. He had to kill more. He had to follow the mission directive: Collect information on the Court of Owls, become one of them, destroy them from the inside out. Play the long game.

And after months and months of dropping concealed information in a variety of places, he would finally meet Bruce again. In person. He would see his dad again.

Dick didn’t know if it was dread or excitement choking him.

A few weeks earlier Dick had found a piece of paper with locations and times written on it, and only two hours ago Cobb had informed him that he would be going out into the Diamond District to shadow a city official. Luckily, one of the dates on Batman’s list correlated with the orders of the Court. Dick would be able to meet him. Would be able to see his dad. Would be forced to face the death on his hands, the failings he had been pressured to commit.

He wasn’t ready, would probably never be, but at the same time a joy filled his veins he hadn’t felt in ages. His dad. He hadn’t seen Bruce in over two years. Hadn’t been home in just as long. And while the Manor had managed to become his home in a matter of months, not even two years spent in the cell they called his room could bring him to call the Court that. No. Bruce would always be his home. No matter what happened. No matter what Bruce had to say to him tonight.

The streets were silent when Dick made his way across the rooftops. While some windows were still bright and filled with life, most weren’t. The Diamond District was a business district full of rich companies and devoid of renters filling up the space. Few people could spare the extra change to buy real estate here and even fewer wanted to. Josef Leitner, the target of tonight’s surveillance, wasn’t one of them. He had a penthouse apartment in the middle of the district, that was beautiful to stalk and observe. And Dick did just that. He noticed the movement of each light dancing across the crevice between the buildings and followed the shadowy form of Leitner with his eyes.

He would sit here for hours. That was unless Bruce suddenly showed up. Or Dick decided to find him instead. One or the other had to happen, both of them spending the night in the same place, closer to each other than they had been in years.

As much as Dick feared the encounter with Bruce, he didn’t know what he’d do if they didn’t meet. What would happen if he had yet to wait another year, another two years, another eternity?

He didn’t have to find out.

There was the soft sound of padded boots landing on the rooftop behind him, followed by a voice he had only dreamt about for two years:

“Dick?”

His name. Nobody had called him by his name in ages. Sometimes it felt as if there was no longer any Dick left, only Gray Son, only Owling, only a future Talon waiting to happen. Only his thoughts still called him by his name. Who would have thought that hearing his dad say it would make him this happy? This elated?

Throwing caution out of the window – or down a thirty-story building, to be precise – Dick turned around, his arms around Bruce before the man could even react. It was weird to hug the Batman, not only because the suit was hard and uncomfortable, but also because Batman wasn’t his dad, Bruce was. But he would have to do with what he got.

Bruce hugged him back and when he spoke it wasn’t Batman that brought Dick to tears:

“Hey, chum. I’ve missed you. You’ve grown so much. Look at you! You’re almost as tall as I am!”

That wasn’t true but Dick felt his heart swell up. His dad. Hugging him. Loving him. He had missed this so much. How had he survived the last few years? Had he even truly survived them? Dick could do absolutely nothing against the tears running down his cheeks.

He thought the Court had beaten any potentiality of crying out of him, had punished him often enough for showing such a basic sign of weakness that Dick was no longer capable of it, but this proved him wrong. He was still human enough to cry. He was still human enough to feel.

“I would love to hug you all night, Dick, but we have things to talk about. Can you let go of me?”

Dick didn’t want to. Touch had been rare – but so much better for it – at the Manor, but touch was pain in the Court. Always. Because if you allowed someone to touch you, that meant that they were close enough to hurt you. And you never passed up an opportunity to hurt someone else.

He shook his head, smushing his face deeper into the crook on Bruce’s neck. He didn’t want to let go. Never wanted to let go. He wanted to stay here forever. With his dad. Safe. Loved. Dick wanted to go back to the Manor, and never think about killing and pain and suffering ever again. But that would be impossible. Especially after he finally told Bruce just what kind of horrible things he had done.

But he would cherish this hug for as long as he could.

“Dick. I need you to let go of me. Now.”

Against his will his limbs complied. One arm after the other Dick untangled himself from the imposing form of Batman, standing in front of him instead, not unlike a soldier giving a report. Not unlike an Owling in front of the Court.

“Thank you. Now, what can you tell me?”

Nothing. For the first time in years Dick’s throat threatened to close up. Words had become his sanctuary in the Court, something they hadn’t yet taken away, something to amuse himself with while he waited in his cell for another round of torture, for another round of fighting to stay alive. But now? Standing in front of Batman, being forced to tell the worst truth of them all? They just didn’t want to leave.

But Bruce knew him, better than any other person on this planet, and he saw the tear tracks, the distress, the pain in Dick’s eyes, and his hands were gentle when they dried Dick’s cheeks.

“It’s okay. Take a deep breath and count to ten. Remember your exercises.”

And Dick did. In time with Bruce’s counting Dick took a deep breath. Calmed himself. Centered himself. Let a bit of the harsh Owling he had become back into his mind, his mannerisms. Just being Dick Grayson hurt, made it impractical when it came to the duties he had to perform. Because Dick Grayson was eternally twelve, and Dick, the Owling, was older, more adapted to the harsh reality of the Court.

Dick Grayson never learned how to overcome his muteness indefinitely, the Dick of the Court of Owls had, because he would have died otherwise. 

“Thank you, B.”

“Nah, it’s alright. I am proud of you. This was faster than you’ve ever calmed down before.”

The night air suddenly felt stifling. Dick hadn’t earned this compliment, hadn’t earned the warm feeling of pride flooding his veins. He had to tell Bruce. He could no longer lie to his dad. Better disappoint him before Bruce said something Dick was too happy to hear.

“B, there is something I have to say. Something that… I killed people. Men and women the Court told me to kill. My parent’s murderer was the first, but after that they never let me stop. I have slashed so many throats, B. So many. There is blood everywhere. I have failed. This… I am so sorry, Bruce. I… I don’t deserve you. Please…”

Dick had tried to stay calm. He really had. He had channeled every ounce of willpower into standing strong in front of Bruce, but his dad wasn’t the Court. The Court just wanted him to do what they told him to do, to kill who they wanted to see dead, and to report when they asked for it. Bruce, on the other hand, was the only person that loved Dick. The only person in the whole world that cared for him.

He would beg on his knees to not lose this love. To not lose his last tie to humanity.

He was ready to do just that. His knees were already bending, his shins hitting the gravel on the roof, before Dick could consciously think about it. He was crying again, and his eyes wouldn’t stray further than Batman’s calves. He would do anything – _anything_ – to make sure that Bruce continued loving him. It was weird, to see himself cower in a way he didn’t even bow in front of the Court. To see how easily Bruce could break what not even two years of pain and humiliation had managed to bend.

But Dick also knew that Bruce was the only thing that kept him from completely losing it. That the reason he was still sane, the reason he could still think straight even after weeks in the labyrinth, was the mission Bruce had granted him with.

Bruce was all he had left. Bruce was the reason he was still alive. Bruce was everything.

Dick wasn’t ready to lose that too. He wasn’t strong enough.

It was a warm hand on his shoulders that returned him to the present. Bruce. A quick glance into Batman’s face told him that worry lined the normally stoic mouth. How long had Dick just cowered in front of Bruce? Had he missed something? Was it time for the verdict?

“Dick. Chum. Dick, please look at me.”

Dick had to fight against the tides in his head to raise his eyes to meet Bruce’s. Or, more accurately, the white out lenses of the Bat-cowl.

“We both knew that that was a possibility. And while it is not okay, will never be okay, you did what you had to do. You killed these people, and you feel sorry, and, yes, that makes you a murderer, but it also ensures the success of the mission.”

Absolution washed Dick’s shame away.

“You did what you had to do, and I respect that. And now, please stand up.”

Dick’s knees shook when he slowly unfurled his body, moving back into a stance more fitted to a son of Batman. He felt unsure, thrown off his game. This was unchartered territory for him. But Bruce had said he respected him. Bruce still loved him. Maybe it would be alright.

“Thank you, B. This means a lot.”

“Always, chum. Do you think you are ready now to tell me more about the movements of the Court? Or do you want to wait a few moments?”

Dick wanted to wait forever. He wanted to stay standing here, Bruce’s hand on his shoulder, his gut free of guilt, having the attention of the only person who counted. As soon as Batman had the information, he would go again. It was unsafe for both of them, but Dick had no way of knowing when or if he would ever see Bruce again. What if this was their last chance? What if they said their goodbyes and the next day the Court decided to kill Dick?

Unimportant. Dick was just a pebble in the ocean that was Gotham, he was a tool to be used, Bruce needed this information and at the end of the day Dick knew that Gotham was so much more important than he was. His selfish desires had no place when it came to saving the world. And how did he fulfill his own part in Batman’s grand scheme? By giving his report. By doing his job. That was something Dick understood:

“The Grandmaster initiated a new member last night at the plenary meeting, and the jewelry suggest that it is Elisabeth Robinson, the owner of the New Gotham Bank. There were also discussions about contacting the Court in Bangkok regarding a new deal for imports of drugs and alcohol. They’re going to move soon. They want to get a hold on the Gotham drug market this way, dismantling Black Mask and Penguin. One trainee managed to survive their test and moved to the rank of Owling. Counting me, the Court currently has five Owlings, one active Talon, and three Talons that act as passive agents doing guard duty and training us. It is unknown how many Talons are being kept in storage.”

He wasn’t even out of breath. Giving reports had become second nature to him. Whenever he went outside, Dick was required to give a detailed report to the Court, whenever a training session ended, he was forced to relive the horrors by telling his trainers about his mistakes and successes. As an Owling Dick was present during all official Court meetings, a trusted member himself, one that was either kneeling at the end of the hierarchy or standing in the middle of the arena about to fight for his life.

Either allowed him to gather information. Information, that might not be useful to his usual masters, but to the man that had given him a home. The Court had taught him the tools he now used to help destroy them.

His information gathering skills seemed to surprise Bruce as well. A pleasant look passed over the shadow of a face visible beneath the cowl and Dick could barely grasp how happy it made him feel to fulfill at least one of his duties satisfactory.

“Good job. This was a very thorough report. I am impressed.”

Yes. Dick had done something correctly. Bruce wouldn’t end this meeting completely disillusioned about him, wouldn’t regret taking Dick in all those years ago. Bruce wouldn’t hate him.

“Can you keep me updated on the current roster of Owlings, Talons, and trainees in your written reports from now on, too? It could be a while before we see each other again and the information is of great value.”

Dick had known that he wouldn’t return home with Bruce today. He had known that his mission with the Court wasn’t finished. That there was still so much information left to gather, so much knowledge left to learn, so much work left to do. And still, he was crushed by the confirmation.

He wanted home. He wanted his dad. He wanted out. _Out_. **OUT.**

But, of course, he would go back for Bruce. He would return to his cell, would tell his masters what they wanted to know, and he would write a report to Bruce that was adequate, that told of every number, member, victim of the Court. He would continue until they reached their goal.

“Of course, Bruce.”

“Thank you. I love you, Dick.”

It was Bruce who initiated the hug this time. But it was Dick who melted into it. The warmth, oh, how he’d missed that warmth. Bruce was strong and when the man held Dick, he was the safest a person could be. The most loved a person could be. Dick’s arms returned the strength of the hug as much as he was capable of, giving his very best to show that he loved Bruce as well. Always.

“Love you, too, dad.”

Bruce made no indication that he had heard Dick. Probably better that way. The word had left his mouth against his will. His emotions were running havoc and he had lost control more often in the last hour than he had in the last year. When he was an Owling in the Court of Owls his emotions were kept tight behind lock and key, but out here, in front of his dad, the lock broke and they reigned free.

“I have to go soon, chum. We’ll try to meet again soon. But even if not I’ll always have your letters.”

And what did Dick have if their meetings didn’t happen?

But Bruce wasn’t inclined to answer Dick’s silent question. Instead he patted Dick on the back, gave him one last squeeze, before vanishing into the night.

Once again Dick was alone, standing on a rooftop across the street from his target, shivering slightly in the chilly night air. Batman was fast and it had taken Bruce no time at all to completely disappear back into the city.

Dick better got back to doing the job he had come out here to do: surveillance. There was no time for battling with his emotions, there was no time to cry even more, to shed the tears he so desperately wanted to spill. Dick Grayson, a boy who loved his dad, had no place here. Dick Gray Son, the Owling, had a job. Had information to gather. Had Josef Leitner to observe.

He didn’t want to disappoint his masters after all.

He fucked up. Dick had fucked up so bad.

But what was he supposed to do? They had asked him to kill a kid. A kid. No older than ten. Dick had been asked to attend a meeting and before he arrived he had already suspected that it would be another test, another proof of trust, but he would never have been able to guess just what the Court wanted of him: The death of a child.

His normal victims were old, older than him in any case, and Dick had always thought the reason for that to be the inability of young people to commit crimes against the Court. Apparently, he had thought wrong. Apparently, this child had done something that made them want to see her dead.

But Dick had said no.

He had disobeyed his masters. He had denied their wishes.

He would die for this. They would kill him, and Dick would be over, his mission a failure, his goal unachieved. Just because he had wanted to be a hero. Just because he didn’t want the blood of a child on his hands.

Starring at the grey tiles of the room they had brought him to, Dick was no longer sure if it had been worth it. They would make it hurt. They would see him scream. Because he had disobeyed. Because he had said no.

Owlings weren’t supposed to still have words like that. The labyrinth was supposed to take them away and Dick wasn’t sure if he would survive if they put him back there. The horror of being completely alone with nothing but white light, white walls, and constant noise, still sent shivers down his spine, even years after he escaped those horrible hallways. Dick had survived them once, but he wouldn’t leave those hallways intact a second time.

Owlings were obedient and silent and followed the rules. They were still human, of course, but an Owling with a will was a failed Owling. That much Dick knew.

And most of the time Dick didn’t have a will. He was a perfect tool, molded to be that way. Following orders and instructions was easy, sometimes even more so than breathing. Bruce had always told him how much he respected that in Dick, how Dick just knew when he had to step back and let others be the leaders, the masters. But Dick also knew when to rebel. Or he thought he did.

He thought his walls made out of words protected him, thought they made him special and safe. Kept him safe. And then he had gone and openly defied the Court.

Bruce would be so disappointed if he failed this far into the mission. If he lost now.

But that was no longer in Dick’s hands. He had made his mistake and now he could only wait for the consequences.

The doors to the room opened and through them came the person Dick had feared the most, the person he had known would be in charge of his punishment: William Cobb. His great-grandfather. His main torturer.

“Gray Son”

“Talon”

Cobb was the current Talon of the Court of Owls, over a hundred years old, and in charge of training Dick. Just Dick. He said their status as relatives gave him special permission, made it possible for him to spend his time beating Dick bloody instead of just running around as a silent assassin killing people.

Cobb had way too much fun doing it, in Dick’s opinion. Both the killing and the torturing.

“You are lucky, son. The Court decided against ending you. Instead they thought me to be quite capable of administrating a fitting punishment. And I am sure we will find something to occupy our time with. We want you to learn your lesson after all.”

That part was the worst: How soft Cobb’s voice could sound, not unlike Bruce’s on some days. It made Dick’s yearning for his home so much worse. Especially since his heart was slow to discern the hurt Cobb inflicted on him and the homesickness every reminder of Bruce brought him.

Dick didn’t struggle when Cobb stepped closer to him, taking Dick’s arms and legs, and restrained them on the table in the center of the room. He knew it was fruitless, knew that every sign of resistance would be punished with even more pain. And still, it felt like giving up, to just lay here and take his penalty. Staring at the ceiling, waiting for pain.

“Good boy.”

Dick turned his head away, hiding the redness in his face, focusing instead on staying silent. Cobb wanted to make him talk, wanted reasons to break Dick even further and further. But Dick wouldn’t give them to him. Not today. Not over the body of a child that was probably still dead, even if Dick hadn’t been the one to kill her.

Cobb circled him slowly, enjoying the fact that Dick’s eyes could only follow him so far before Cobb vanished from his field of vision, only to reappear suddenly and dead silent by his side. It was an old torture tactic, but that didn’t make it any less effective. Especially since Cobb enjoyed waiting and playing with the intervals, never keeping them equally long, since he liked watching Dick flinch and tense of suspense.

The first strike of the spiked whip came out of nowhere. Dick hadn’t even known that that was the weapon of choice. But with the bloody strip of skin down his arm, he could no longer ignore just how painful this was going to be.

In a fight Dick had adrenaline to keep him going, in an interrogation his strength and willpower would help him prevail, but during torture? Nothing here to help him fight through the blazing fires.

Cobb struck again and again. Dick could feel more than see how his skin split, spilling blood and creating pain. They started burning after a while, pulsing, and Dick wondered when the last time had been that someone cleaned the torture tool.

“You’re so silent today, boy. Normally you’re so mouthy during training. What happened? Cat got your tongue?”

“Fuck you”

The word was hissed through Dick’s clenched teeth, a way to keep himself from screaming. He didn’t want to give Cobb the satisfaction of knowing just how much each whiplash hurt. But after a while Dick’s grunts and whimpers weren’t enough for Cobb anymore. While Dick’s position allowed him some view of the room, Cobb still had more than enough space to prepare new toys to play with in secret.

Dick’s clothes were ripped, blood coating what felt like every centimeter of his skin. And all of this for a girl he didn’t even know. All of this for the chance to play hero.

“Normally I would be done at this point, as you very well know. A little whipping can go a long way, but the Court really wants you to suffer. You embarrassed them. We can’t let that stand.”

Dick couldn’t even enjoy being left alive. He couldn’t even be happy about the prospect of continuously being able to serve Bruce.

He just wanted the pain to end.

Cobb turned around and in his hands was a cattle rod, the ends already sparking with excess electricity. Dick was strong. But he wasn’t this strong. The cattle rod was pressed deep into one of the gashes on his chest, electricity running through his body, flesh burning on contact.

Dick screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

“That’s what comes from disobeying the Court, boy. You would be better of keeping that in mind.”

Cobb pressed the rod down again, white pain filling his mind, and continued on. Pressing down the burning cattle rod, lashing out with his whip, teasing and threatening Dick until he was ready to beg for unconsciousness.

He had disobeyed the Court. He had to learn this lesson. His masters had to punish him. But Dick just wanted it to end. He wanted for the pain to stop.

Whenever he felt as if it was finally enough, that it would finally stop, Cobb started again, using something else, doing something new, to torture Dick and break him.

All of this for a child. All of this for the chance to be a hero.

Dick no longer wanted to be a hero. He wanted for Bruce to save him, for Cobb to stop hurting him, for the nightmare that was the Court of Owls to end. He wanted home. He wanted to never disobey ever again.

It took way too long for him to lose conscience, but when it finally – _finally_ – happened Dick greeted the darkness with open arms.

It had been unlikely to meet Bruce before, but after Dick tested the trust the Court had in him, it became nearly impossible. By the time Dick was nearing his 17th birthday, they had only seen each other three more times, and Dick had killed mountains of people. His skill in killing was honed beyond the skill of a normal Owling, beyond even the skill of some of the Talons.

And his blind obedience managed to earn him back what his little stunt with the girl had cost him. When they presented him with another child, Dick killed it, no questions asked. He was _theirs_ after all. He had to be _theirs_ , so he could help Bruce. And one could only be _theirs_ by being the best.

He was the Owling the Court presented the Parliament of Owls, he was the Owling who had to do better in every training session, in every round of torture. He was the one who had to stand tall. He was the one they called Gray Son of Gotham, fulfiller of prophesies.

Dick had only recently found out about the tales that were told about the Gray Son of Gotham behind closed doors and in whispered conversations. Nobody explicitly told him, of course. One of his fellow Owlings, a girl named Linda who got traded into the Court as a favor by her father to the leaders of the city, had shared it with him as revenge.

Her whole family had been a part of the Court for generations now, and when she heard his name, she had known just who he was. But even as someone in the know, the specifics of the prophesy eluded her. Dick tried to not be frightened by that. His only hope was that the information had reached Bruce, that his dad knew just what to do.

(It had become harder to convey messages, the Court keeping a closer look on him than ever before – but Dick had managed to write them still, had managed to hide them in the city. He just never knew if they reached Bruce)

Other than that, Dick liked Linda, liked the fact that in the moments they stole together he was just Dick and she was just Linda, and not Gray Son and Owlet. She was his first kiss, and sometimes Dick feared that she would be his last one, too.

They didn’t love each other, Owlings didn’t love, they were too busy for something like that, but they shared experiences. There was no one else for them to form relationships with, romantic or platonic, because they were the only ones left. Which made their connection even stronger. Even the sharing of names had been a secret gift from one of them to the other, whispered promises of identity and remembrance. Linda was the only one in the Court who knew him as Dick, and he did the same for her: Remembering her name.

Just as they remembered the names of the other Owlings.

Dick had told Bruce that there had been five of them the first time they had seen each other again. A week later Linda had been told to battle Raoul to the death as one of her tests. She won. Dick had ended the life of Patty a year later, when the girl had made a grievous mistake during training. Justin had been executed only a few months ago after his parents betrayed the Court and an example had to be made.

And now there were only two. Linda and Dick. Dick and Linda.

He looked at her now, kneeling on the other side of the arena, a direct mirror of the pose he held while the Grandmaster decided their fates. This would be the end of one of them and as much as Dick liked her, as much as Dick would hate to see her go, he knew he had to win.

Just as he knew that Linda would think the same. The only friend an Owling had was itself.

They would battle to the death. And there would be no holding back. Because losing meant death and death was not an option.

Especially not for Dick. He wanted to return home one day. He wanted to walk the Manor halls again, to be greeted by Bruce’s tired smile when they sat down for breakfast, or the burned smell of toast. He wanted to have a home again, some day in the future. Something he could hope for.

And for that to happen, he had to survive.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the worthy Court of Owls comes together today, to celebrate the latest graduates of our very own Owling training program. Owlet and Gray Son have battled many foes over the years, they fought each other, and they overcame every test with grandeur. Each of them helped the Court remain in power, and they helped strengthen our ranks. And today they decide which one of them will live and which one of them will die!”

The members of the Court applauded when the Grandmaster finished his speech. From his vantage point Dick could see the champagne flutes and the luxury coloring the attendees of tonight’s event as those who loved spilt blood and alcohol with a taste of danger.

Linda had told him once, that there could only be one active Talon per generation, that they stored the old ones and the ones not currently used in icy coffins. It sounded horrific. But she also told him that the Court always had Owlings. Sometimes so they could choose the next Talon from the surviving ones, and most of the time because the Court needed foot soldiers as well.

But the Court couldn’t let them idle in the security that they were needed, no, they constantly had to fight each other, kill each other. When only one of them was left, they would be sent against the active Talon and if they died – they usually did – a new class of Owlings would be introduced into the Court to do their bidding.

This was the second to last challenge before Dick would either be killed or forced to become a Talon.

It was just sad that Linda was the one he had to fight. To kill.

“Gray Son, Owlet: You may proceed.”

His knives were in his hands before the Grandmaster had finished speaking. They had felt foreign once upon a time, but now, after over four years in the Court, they had become a part of him, something he knew better than maybe even himself. Dick had learned to love his knives and now he wouldn’t miss them.

He started running just then, his focus only on Owlet, who had forgone her knives for the claws on her gloves. The noise surrounding him broke away. No longer could he hear the people yelling, cheering, laughing, only his steady pulse and the sound of his own breathing filled his ears. The exhilarating adrenaline of a fight got hold of him, and Gray Son knew himself well enough to know that it would only subside when Owlet laid slain on the floor.

His weapons clashed against her claws with a bang, when he finally reached her, her smirk infuriating Gray Son. She had been waiting for him, countering his blow with a steady stance.

“This the best you’ve got, Gray Son?”

“No”

Using the momentum of his run, Gray Son pushed himself off the ground, flipping himself over Owlet’s head, while his hand twisted, successfully dislodging his caught knife. When he landed in a crouch, Owlet’s other hand was waiting for him.

Her claws sunk into Gray Son’s stomach, spilling blood and hurt. Gray Son didn’t falter though, too used to the pain of injury during a fight. He still had time before this wound would become a concern. Years of experience and the scars to prove it had taught him that.

Instead he used the hand caught in his flesh to destroy Owlet’s balance. He pulled her closer, and when her footing had to shift to accommodate the sudden change to her center of gravity, Gray Son pushed his knife into her shoulder until only the hilt was visible.

He would have gone for the throat, but already he could see her other hand readying a counter, and he knew that she wouldn’t have let him kill her so early on. No, they were both better than that.

“But this might be.”

Still using her unbalanced stance against her, Gray Son twisted free of her grasp. He moved out of her range of motion, catching his breath. The adrenaline protected him against most of the pain, but the human mind still wanted to care, to scream. It was a force of habit to push that need down. And still Gray Son took a moment to concentrate on staying upright.

The blood was making his clothes sticky.

Owlet had also used the short breather in the rhythm of their fight. Her stance was battle ready once again, her eyes following every expansion of his chest, every breath he took. They were watching each other, both bleeding, both fighting to survive.

“I think you lost something.”

With that she wrenched the knife out of her shoulder and threw it straight at his throat. Gray Son knew that it was a distraction, knew that she would attack while he was busy not getting impaled, but that didn’t mean that he could do anything else besides follow his instincts.

His heel caught the knife before it could reach him, changing its trajectory with a force that made sure it would impale the floor instead of him. And as anticipated Owlet had used his need to protect himself to gain ground. Her claws came straight for his neck, and only in the last possible moment Gray Son managed to stop her with his right arm.

Another injury, another source of blood spilling from his body, but at least he was still standing.

At least he still had time to turn the tides.

Gray Son could see how heavy Owlet was breathing, could guess that the blood loss was starting to affect her performance, and attacked. His left hand found a knife strapped to his thigh, dislodged it and rammed it into the same shoulder his first knife had previously harmed. But instead of using the pain that flashed across Owlet’s face to distance himself once again, Gray Son twisted the weapon for the maximum amount of damage. It was satisfying to hear the low moan of distress Owlet couldn’t hold back when Gray Son took his time in inflicting the torture his mind had planned.

But Owlet hadn’t survived this long for nothing. She was a fighter. Close to the level of ability Gray Son portrayed. And fighters never stayed down.

Gray Son had lost himself in the pleasure of hurting her and she used that against him. Their limbs were locked together, her claws in his arm, his knife in her shoulder, but Gray Son had forgotten about their legs. One should never forget about the legs. That had been a lesson early on. One he hadn’t internalized well enough, it appeared.

Owlet kicked him in the crotch, the force surprising for someone already starting to lose balance due to the blood coating everything. And even after years of training, Gray Son couldn’t suppress the flinch that cursed through his body when her foot connected with his balls.

The Court didn’t believe in cups.

It was enough for Owlet, that short sign of weakness. She removed her bloody claws from his arm, giving him his freedom of motion back, only to sink them into the soft flesh surrounding his collarbone moments later. Gray Son hadn’t had the time to save himself, but he had managed to twist far enough that her hand could no longer reach his throat. The collarbone was bad enough, he could feel the bone breaking under the force of her attack.

Gray Son was losing. He could feel his thoughts getting more sluggish by the second and judging by the gallons of blood both of them had spilled there was no need asking why. He had to finish this fight quick, before there would be no more fight left, for him to win.

He loved flying, he loved heights, and kicks, and summersaults, which meant what he did now was something no one expected: He dropped low. His sudden movement towards the floor tripped Owlet up, her hand still caught in his collarbone. And in that moment Gray Son struck.

Time was flowing differently when his left hand, still clutching the knife he had used to torture her, came back up again, aiming straight for the soft flesh of her stomach. He would have gone for her throat, but his current angle left him nothing but the second-best option: A slow and painful death.

He could see it in her eyes, the moment she realized that she wouldn’t be able to block the attack. He could see the anger, the fear, and then the acceptance that flashed over her face.

It was almost too easy, when his knife parted the skin, spilling death. It was almost too easy when her body fell down, joining him on the floor.

“I am so sorry, Linda.”

“No, you’re not.”

He wasn’t. But he would remember her.

And then it was over. Dick sat next to his only friend, now a corpse, when sound returned to his world. He could hear the cheering again, the laughter, the nausea inducing excess these monsters partook in. But the rest remained fuzzy. Dick had lost too much blood, the pain slowly overtaking his entire mind. He was tired. Cold. Angry. Sad.

It didn’t feel real when the Grandmaster announced him the winner:

“Ladies and Gentlemen! We have found a champion: The Gray Son of Gotham. He is the Owling we have chosen! And when the time is right, he will face his final challenge: Our grandiose Talon! His ancestor! William Cobb!”

Dick didn’t hide his smile when he heard who exactly his last challenger would be. He had known, of course, but hearing that he would be allowed to kill Cobb, the man who was at fault for all of this, the man who had tortured him with such glee, made warmth spread through him.

But keeping his head raised was getting harder and harder. Black bled into his vision, slowly claiming him. It was easy enough to comply.

Time wasn’t real.

After Linda was gone, there was nobody left to remind Dick of who he was. It became near impossible to stay Dick and not become the Gray Son of Gotham. It became harder and harder to care if he was one thing or the other.

They sent him out more. His scouting missions were of greater importance and it was impossible to even sneak a glance of Bruce. Him being seen with the Batman would mean his immediate demise, his death. And Dick didn’t want that. He wanted to live. He wanted to complete the mission.

Wanted to see the game they played come to an end.

But still that didn’t mean he didn’t miss Bruce. No, quite the opposite, actually. Sometimes he painted pictures of the callused hands of his dad drying his tears or keeping him warm in a tight hug in his head. The only things that kept him going when everything got too much. When being a tool of the Court hurt too much.

Dick knew that his parents, his Mami and Tati, wouldn’t recognize him if they saw him now. And that was not only because of the blood permanently staining him red. No, Dick Grayson, their child, had been opinionated; he had never shut up, and loved freely and plenty. Dick Grayson had been happy.

Gray Son was neither of these things. His opinion was unimportant, his will broken. His love was only given to one person and that person alone. It had been ages since he last felt truly happy, had joy course through his veins. The only thing that was still left of Dick Grayson in this shell of a perfect assassin were the words. The tales and stories Dick told himself in his head, the ramblings he shared with his cell. His words were what kept him sane – and himself. They were his only companions when he missed Bruce. When he missed being human.

But things never stayed the same. At some point Dick would have to face his last challenge, his last opponent, and it seemed as if that time had come.

Dick had no idea what date it was or how long it had been since Linda bled out in front of him, but looking at William Cobb, Dick no longer cared about any of these things. He wanted to fight the man. He wanted to destroy him. He wanted to see him bleed; he wanted revenge for all those times Cobb had spilled his blood.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, it is finally time. The Gray Son of Gotham faces his last challenge today: Our honorable Talon. Talon has served this Court for over a hundred years, has defeated many foes. Many have tried to best him, all of them have failed! Now the Gray Son will battle him as his final test! Begin!”

The fight began. The Grandmaster’s voice blended into the background as everything in Gray Son focused on Talon.

It would be an unfair fight, a cruel one. Gray Son using his knives as always, while Talon chose from an arsenal of weapons. This battle wasn’t meant to be fair, wasn’t like the fights against the other Owlings or the older Talons. No, they wanted to test him to his extremes, wanted to see how far they could push him. Dick was ready to show them. If he could.

Talon had chosen the whip he loved to torture Dick with as his weapon of choice. It was a long-distance weapon, something that was almost impossible for Gray Son to counter. All he could do was evade the slashes and hope for the best. He wasn’t always successful, the burning sensation on his arms enough proof of that.

He threw one of his knives and it managed to hit Talon, who hadn’t even tried to dodge. He didn’t have to. Talons were hard to kill and a knife sticking out of them was barely worth noticing. Talon knew that too, only grinning at this show of fighting spirit. He probably thought it was cute, that Gray Son thought he could harm him this easily.

But that had not been Gray Son’s plan at all: Instead he used Talon’s gloating moment to rap his hands around the whip when it came down to split him open once again. He could feel the thorns on it pierce his gloves, could feel the familiar burning sensation of whiplashes on his skin, but he managed to hold tight. And he managed to pull it free of Talon’s grasp. And throw it behind himself.

It did no harm – of course, it didn’t – but at least it forced Talon to engage in close combat with Gray Son. Gray Son was had mastered that style of fighting, someone born to soar through the sky and flip over his opponents. Someone born to be close to his victims when they died.

Trading kicks and flips only worked for so long, however, and with a clever twist of his arm, Talon managed to pin Gray Son down, his own knife dangerously close to the favorite target of the Court: Gray Son’s throat.

Talon grinned down at him, showing his white teeth through the bloodless lips every Talon possessed:

“Not so feisty now, are you, boy?”

“I will kill you and I will hold your decapitated head high for the crowds to see!”

“Oh, and then?”

“And then they will make me Talon and I will be greater than you ever were!”

Talon only laughed. Gray Son’s rage knew no limits when he kicked out, successfully dislodging Talon from his chest, distancing himself from the knife that had so nearly ended his life. But instead of using the distance to breath, Gray Son moved right back into an attack.

He went through the motions of a flying kick, throwing knifes and daggers at every turn and twist. It was a showy move, something made to impress, not to kill, but it forced Talon back if he didn’t want Gray Son to be suddenly standing too close for comfort. Both of them were trying to save their necks after all.

With the distance growing between them, Gray Son could allow himself to glance around, trying to access if anything useful at all was lying around. But no such luck. Only the discharged whip was close enough and Gray Son had no idea how to use it. A weapon, after all, got deadly for the wielder if they didn’t know how to use it correctly.

But his train of thought got cut short when Talon did something Gray Son had never seen him do before: Throw a dagger of his own. Gray Son was too baffled and too slow to stop it, and with a surprised cry the dagger buried itself deep in Gray Son’s chest.

His eyes flew down to the wound and it felt weird to know that he now had only minutes left to fight before this dagger would be his end. It was a harsh injury, a potentially deadly one, but Gray Son wouldn’t let that stop him.

Instead he launched another attack at Talon, ignoring how his chest burned and heaved. But Talon evaded him again. And again. Whenever Gray Son neared his opponent, Talon would simply move away, elude him or take the injury without complaint.

Only a decapitated head would kill a Talon, after all.

Gray Son had no such privilege. His breath was coming shorter and shorter, blood tickling the back of his throat. His knees shook and Gray Son could do nothing but comply. He fell down onto the ground, his legs folded beneath him.

But he wasn’t dead yet. He was still alive. Still breathing. Talon hadn’t won yet.

Talon came closer just then, kneeling in front of Gray Son’s slumped form. His movements were full of glee when he took a handful of Gray Son’s dark locks and wrenched his head upwards, forcing Gray Son to look him in the eyes:

“So, that’s it. And do you want to know a secret, boy? I’m a special Talon. I was loyal before they made me their greatest weapon and I remained myself throughout the procedure. But you? They would have whipped you blank. You are too rebellious. Too feisty. You would be a no-good Talon if you were still Dick Grayson. Be grateful for what I am about to do-“

But before Talon could raise his knife and slit Gray Son’s throat, Gray Son reacted. With the last strength his body possessed, Gray Son lunged. His knife made contact with Talon’s neck before the man in question could counter. But instead of retracting it, he kept on pressing down, sawing through the muscles and bones of Talon’s throat, until the head was finally – _finally_ – severed from its body.

Gray Son’s chest heaved. There was blood on his clothes, his own, mostly, but also the black ooze that flowed through the veins of a Talon. He had won. Gray Son had slain the Talon before him. Would soon be a Talon himself.

He could finally move on with Bruce’s plan. They could finally set everything in motion. Their plan had finally paid off.

But before he could do that, he had to celebrate his victory. He had decapitated one of his foes after all. He had killed the man who loved to torture him. It was a struggle to stand up, pain radiating through every part of his body, but Gray Son did it anyways.

He stood up, with Talon’s head in his hand, and raised it up for everyone to see.

The cheering crowd was answer enough. He had won.

He got first aid after that, he always did. Just enough to keep him alive, never more, never to make him comfortable or for the pain to go away. It was an extensive wound, and Dick knew that the first aid wouldn’t be enough. That he would die anyways if they didn’t do anything drastic soon.

It was the Grandmaster, who came to Dick, while he waited for the nurses to stop temporarily patching him up. They had never been this close together, Dick was normally only allowed to see the master from the safe distance of the arena. Not now, it seemed.

“You were breathtaking out there, Gray Son. Truly astonishing. Especially with the clever little tricks you used.”

“Thank you, Grandmaster”

Dick kept his voice even. His eyes lowered to the floor.

“Normally we wait a few days before we move on with creating a new Talon, but your wounds force our hand a little.”

“I am very sorry, Grandmaster”

“Oh, no! It’s alright! We’re just going to move a little quicker than usual. There is going to be someone here soon, who’ll help you into the cooling chamber. After that you are in the trusted hands of our very own scientists. We’ll see each other again, Gray Son.”

Just as quick as the Grandmaster had appeared, he vanished again. Maybe Dick was losing time, he wouldn’t be surprised if he did: He had lost too much blood and his breathing was labored at best. He hoped their methods would be quick. It would really suck if Dick had managed to get this far, to survive this much, only to die moments before reaching his goal.

Just as the Grandmaster had promised, a new figure approached Dick a few minutes later, someone clad in the robes of a low member of the Court.

They led Dick down a hallway, deep into the labyrinth that served as the center of the Court, until Dick no longer had any idea where he was. The white walls seemed to go on forever and when they finally stopped, Dick was unable to keep on standing.

The door in front of him opened, white fog streaming out of it. A cooling chamber indeed.

His guide helped him sit down facing a second door, so Dick could watch for someone else to come. Or so he guessed. They weren’t really all that talkative and for once in his life Dick didn’t feel like talking either. Each step deeper into the labyrinth had aggravated the fresh stiches in his chest, sending an unpleasant ripping sensation through his body. He just wanted for the pain to stop. He could talk again when breathing didn’t hurt so much anymore.

The guide left and Dick was alone, nothing left to do besides staring at the opposing wall and freeze.

Right in that moment he wanted so many things. He wanted for Bruce to come and get him. For their plan to work. For everything they had worked so hard on to pay off.

And if he had to wait in a cooling chamber to do so, then so be it.

It didn’t take long for his teeth to start chattering. A wound as big as the one he had suffered led to a faster onset of hypothermia, he knew that, and the exertion he had been put through before certainly didn’t help. It was cold.

It was so, so cold.

Dick knew it would be over soon. That soon, he would feel nothing at all. That soon, he would have strength, healing factor, and eternal youth. That soon, he would be in a position to truly help Bruce. He just hoped that Cobb’s words weren’t true.

Because Dick wanted to stay himself. Even the twisted version the Court had created had to be better than a mindless Talon. He could feel the fear set in, the doubt, the what-ifs and the questions about the necessity of all of this. He fought it the same way he fought everything. He fought the pain, the fear, the cold by talking:

“Hey, B. I’m just gonna imagine that you are here. That you are watching over me. It helps me keep calm. I don’t know what comes next. I mean, I know that they’re gonna turn me into a Talon, but I don’t know what happens after that. I wish you were here so you could hold my hand. It would help, I bet. I’m really scared. And I miss you. I hope you know I love you. And thank you. Thank you so much for loving me when no one else would. You’re a great dad.”

The tears that left his body froze almost as soon as they spilt. It was freezing. It was so, so cold. His voice was shaking while he talked through the pain. Little puffs of fog came out of his mouth whenever he forced himself to breath, the icy air sliding down his thorax chilling him even further.

It became harder and harder to focus, his thoughts slowing, his body moving beyond shivering. Dick didn’t know if he had ever been this cold in his entire life. It was incredibly strenuous to keep his head upright, to keep his eyes open and glued to the door.

Soon. Soon all of this would be over.

But what if he didn’t remember himself when all of this was over? What if this was the last thing Dick Grayson would ever think? Ever feel? What if Cobb had been right?

What if Dick would not only forget himself, but also Linda? Raoul? Patty? Justin? _Bruce_? All these names he had promised to remember. All the victims Dick couldn’t save but swore to carry along, nonetheless.

Maybe he could do something. They hadn’t taken Dick’s knives from him before they dumped him here, and it was relatively easy to find one small enough to carve. The act of carving every single name Dick knew, however, was much, much harder. But he did it.

He wrote one name after the other and swore to remember. He swore that even if he didn’t, the walls, he caved their names into, certainly would. He wrote Linda’s name and remembered her, just as he tried to remind himself of each of the Owling through the fog of his brain. And, when his hands were already unfeeling, well past the stages of early frostbite, he wrote his own name: Richard “Dick” John Grayson.

He left something of himself behind. Some part that would always stay Dick no matter what happened next.

The knife clattered onto the floor; Dick no longer able to hold onto it. It was freezing in here.

The pain moved further away, becoming one with the cruel cold that pierced every centimeter of Dick’s body. He would lose conscience soon. He didn’t know if he welcomed it or not.

Hopefully all of this had been worth it.

Hopefully Bruce would be proud of him.

Hopefully Cobb had lied.

…

The door in front of him opened, the sudden light blinding Dick. There were people surrounding him now, hands pushing him upwards, forwards. His location changed, his brain no longer able to follow along, too cold to care, too tired to even try.

There was a table beneath him, suddenly, and Dick felt himself relax. They were strapping him down now. Maybe they would let him sleep. Maybe he could finally rest. He wanted the sleep. His eyes closed almost against his will.

“Which idiot left him in there for this long?”

“Hey! We needed to make sure that the core temperature was low enough! You know how it is: A pulse even slightly too high and the subject dies before the electrum can do its job.”

“You don’t need to remind me! But look at him! With his blood loss it’s a wonder he’s still breathing. How would you’ve explained that to March? ‘Sorry, I froze the Talon of the Great Prophesy’?”

“Ah, shut up”

The voices washed over him, Dick not awake enough to follow. He was still so cold, but sleep was slowly dragging him under. Thankfully. In his dreams he could be warm. In his dreams he could be with Bruce. Safe. Free of pain. In his dreams he could be Dick Grayson.

Someone pushed a needle into the soft flesh of the crook of his arm. The voices surrounding him continued talking, someone let something fall, a paper rustled; all of the noises were human, normal, everyday.

Until pain started flooding his veins. Until Dick started to scream.

Talon opened its eyes. The world was bright. Painfully so. But Talon no longer cared for pain.

Someone was standing in front of it. Grandmaster. Talon lowered its eyes.

“Talon. Welcome back. What is your objective?”

“To be a loyal servant to the Court of Owls.”

Its voice sounded weird. Wrong. But Talon could not understand why.

“And?”

“And to serve my Masters.”

And to please its Master Bruce Wayne above all else.

Talon was ready.

**Author's Note:**

> The second chapter is written and you will get it! But it is even worse than this one...


End file.
